LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 



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FRANK McALPINE. 



TREASURES 



FEOM THE 



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BIOGEAPHICAL SKETCHES, 



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PEOF. PRANK McAJjPINE. 



ILLUSTRATED. 



Sold by Subscription Only. 



CHICAGO, ILL.: 
ELLIOTT & BEEZLEY., 

1882. 



V 



H&2i 



Mir 



COPYRIGHT, 1882, BY 

ELLIOTT & BEEZLEY. 



MANUFACTURED BY 

Elliott & Beezley's Publishing House, 
Chicago, Ills. 



INTRODUOTIOK 




'HIS volume is compiled to meet a general 
demand. We all wish to know something 
of the life and writings of our most popular 
poets, but we have not the time to read each volume 
separately, besides the expense of a poetic library 
is a matter of no small consideration. Each poet's 
writings contain many things of a local character, 
and of special interest to the friends for whom they 
were intended, or to the section of country for which 
they were prepared. But the poetic treasures which 
we have gathered for our readers are world-wide in their 
interest. They are composed of "jewels, five words 
long, that, on the stretched forefinger of all time, 
sparkle forever." 

"There are verses and snatches of song that con- 
tinually haunt and twitter about the memory, as in 
summer the swallows haunt and twitter about the 
oaves of our dwelling." Such lines of verse whose 
cadence so delights the ear and charms the soul, 
should be committed to memory. They would become, 



m INTRODUCTION. 

as Kuskin says, "fairy palaces of beautiful thoughts, 
bright fancies, satisfied memories, noble histories, faith- 
ful sayings, treasures of precious and restful thoughts 
which care cannot disturb, nor pain make gloomy, nor 
poverty take away from us,— houses built without hands 
for our souls to live in." 

We are told that Goethe, the prince of German 
poets, always invoked the muse and made a poem on 
his troubles, and so got rid of nhem. He who fills 
his mind with poetic treasures has a fund of happi- 
ness that the longest life cannot exhaust. The muse 
becomes his true friend. 

For his gayer hours 
She has a voice of gladness, and a smile 
And eloquence of beauty, and she glides 
Into his darker musings, with a mild 
And healing sympathy, that steals away 
Their sharpness, ere he is aware." 

Frank McAlpine. 



CONTENTS. 



Among the Beautiful Pictures - - Alice Cory - - 44 

Angels of Buena Vista - - - J. G. Whittier 324 

Abou Ben Adeem ----- Leigh Hunt - 330 

After - - 399 

Barefoot Boy, The - - - - J. G. Whittier 395 

Bay of Seven Islands, The - - - J. G. Whittier - 218 

Beautiful Things - - 240 

Battle, The Schiller - 126 

Bay Bdllie 304 

Bride, The - - - - -Mrs. Sigourney 45 

Bunker Hill Mrs. C. M. Sawyer 309 

Break, Break, Break - Alfred Tennyson 162 

Briefless Barrister ... John G. Saxe - 389 

Cotter"s Saturday Night, The - - Robert Burns - 58 

Changed Cross, The - - - Mrs. C. Hobart 70 

Children Laughed and Sang, The - Chamber s Journal 263 

Common Lot, The - Montgomery - 102 

Children's Hour, The - Longfellow - 337 

Curtain, The Hunter - - 147 

Charge of the Heavy Brigade - - Tennyson - 157 

Cowper's Grave ----- Mrs. Browning - 200 

Creeds of the Bells, The - - Geo. W. Bungay 373 

Cabin Philosophy . - - - - J. H Macon - 377 



6 



CONTENTS. 



Changeling, The 

Dee am of Life, The 

Daniel Gray - - 

Deserted Village, The 

Driving Home the Cows - 

Dying Alchemist, The - 

Dick's Watch - 

Dapple Mare, The 

Day is Done, The 

Dead Calm in the Tropics - 

Day Dream, A 

Dreamer and His Dreams, The 

Drifting 

Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard 
Evening Eeverle, An 
Entertaining Her Big Sister's Beau - 
Fare Thee Well ... - 



First Gray Hair - 

Forest Hymn - 

Fred's Jacket - . - 

From "The Excursion" 

From "An Evening Walk' 

From "The Princess" 

Footsteps of' Angels 

Fountain, The - 

Farewell 

Gambler's Wife, The 

Garfield 

Good and Better - 

Hannah Jane 



J. R. Lowell - 386 
Geo. D. Prentice 21 
J. G. Holland 53 

Oliver Goldsmith 76 
Kate P. Osgood 91 
Willis - - 229 

Mrs. L. M. Blimm 267 
J. G. Saxe - 270 
Longfellow - 286 

S. T. Coleridge- 12a 
124 
T. B. Thayer - 136 
T. Buchanan Read 300 
Thomas Gray - 47 
Bryant - 230 

Brete Harte - 268 
Lord Byron - 207 
Thos. H. Bayley 224 
Bryant - 238 

Youth's Companion 261 



Wordsworth - 


99 


" 


101 


Alfred Tennyson 


161 


Longfellow 


381 


JT. R. Lowell - 


385 


Thos. Moore 


177 


Coates 


280 


Eugene JT. Hall 


391 




107 

248 


JD. R. Locke - 



CONTENTS. 



Hiawatha's Wooing - Longfellow - 288 

Home and Mothee - Mrs. A. D. Bailey 333 

Heart of Sorrows - - 362 

Irish Emigrant, The - - - - Lady Duffer in 40 

Intimations op Immortality - - - Dana - - 176 

John Burns of Gettysburgh - - Brete Harte - 358 

Long Life ------ Kennedy - - 32 

Lost Day, A Mrs. Sigourney 80 

Last Hour, The ----- Juliet C. Marsh 106 

Little Meg and I - - - C. T. Murphy 114 

Last Footfall, The - - - Anonymous - 129 

Legend of, The Seven Towers, The- Agnes Leslie - 140 

Little Golden Haer - Carleton - - 314 

Labor Mrs. F. S. Osgood 168 

Loom of Life 191 

Launching the Ship - Longfellow - 351 

My Own Fireside A. A. Watts - 212 

Model Church r - - 117 

My Mother - - - - - Sir Walter Scott 170 

My Creed - Alice Carey - 399 

Not one Child to Spare - - • - 254 

No Sects in Heaven - - - - IE. II. ,T. Cleveland 214 

Night - Southey - - 283 

Old Clock, The Longfellow - 23 

Ode to the Memory of Mrs. Kjlligrew Lryden - - 34 

Orphans, The CM. Sawyer 241 

Of Books Ada Cranahan - 282 

Old Folk's Koom, The - - - 104 

Old Arm-Chatr Eliza Cook - 132 

Old Man's Dream, The - - - Holmes - 342 



3 



CONTENTS. 



Old Man Meditates, The - - - Will Carleton - 345 

Only a Letter Mrs. Kidder - 196 

Old Home, The - - -'• Tennyson - 160 

Our Country ----- Montgomery - 179 

Old Times and New - - - - A. C. Spooner 368 

Painter of Seville ... - Susan Wilson - 25 

Patience Henry Burton 93 

Picket Before Bull Kun, The - - John Wm. Day 312 

Poesy ------ Holmes - 341 

Peri's Song Moore - - 145 

Prayer in the Prospect of Death - Burns - - 184 

Prisoner of Chillon, The - Byron - 185 

Press On - - - - - Bark Benjamin 192 

Bemembrance ----- Bobert Souihey - 19 

Bock of Ages 94 

Baven, The Edgar A. Boe - 108 

Boll Call of Home, The - - - Chamber s Journal 119 

Besignation -, Longfellow - 298 

Beveries at a Mother's Grave - - Geo. B. Brentice 331 

Bing Out, Wild Bells - - - - Alfred Tennyson 163 

BlVER AND THE TlDE, The - - 167 

Baphael's Account of the Creation - Milton - - 174 

Bhyme of the Bail - - - - JT. G. Saxe - 355 

Spoils of Time, The - Shakespeare - 13 

Silent Melody ----- Holmes - 16 

Selling the Farm - Beth Bay - - 84 

Somebody's Mother - Harper s Weekly 89 

Sabbath, The ----- James Grahame - 210 

Song of the Shirt -.■-■-•- Thos. Hood - 214 

Struggle - 279 



CONTENTS. 



School, The 

Snow-Bound - - - - - 

Song of the Pioneers - 

Seventeen and Seventy 

Tragedy op Cato - 

Two Mysteries, The - - - 

Two Anchors, The - 

Toby's Supper - 

Turned Lesson, The 

Thought ------ 

Things in the Bottom Drawer 

TntED Mothers 

Time and its Changes - 

Time I've Lost in Wooing - 

Untimely Gathered - - - - 

Village Preacher, The 

Victoria's Tears - - - - 

Vine, The 

Whistling in Heaven ... 

Waiting for Mother - 

When We Two Parted 

Why the Dog's Nose is Always Cold 

Winter Walk at Noon 

Water-MhxL, The - 

Your Mission - - - 



Cowper - 


134 


J. G. Whittier - 


319 


W. D. Gallagher 


182 




330 
39 


Addison - 


JVJiitman - 


42 


E. H. Stoddard 


82 




245 
256 


Francis Haveral 


C. P. Cranch - 


259 




328 
335 
173 




Bailey - 


Tlios. Moore - 


178 


M. W. M. 


226 


Oliver Goldsmith 


78 


Mrs. Browning - 


203 


W. M. L. Fay 


194 




65 
96 


Mary Brind 


Lord Byron - 


205 




265 
134 


Cowper - 


- 


164 


■ 


130 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES. 



John Dryden, - 




33 


Joseph Addison, « 


• 


- 38 


Eobekt Burns, - 




56 


Oliver Goldsmith, - 


• 


- 74 


"William Wordsworth, 




98 


Samuel Taylor Colerddge, - 




- 121 


Alfred Tennyson, - 




155 


Mrs. Elizabeth Barrett Browning, 


. 


- 198 


William Gullen Bryant, 




234 


Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, 


- 


- 284 


John Greenleaf Whittier, 




317 


Oliver Wendell Holmes, 


■ 


339 


James Bussell Lowell, 


- 


383 



"fecent a libino, man, there is nothing mere 
toonberfnl than a book; a message to ns fxom the 
oeab--from human souls toe neoer sato, toho lioeb, 
nerhans, thonsanbs of miles atoau, anb renturies ago. 
^nb set these, in these little sheets oi paper, 
speak txr ns, arouse ns, terrify ns, soothe ns, tearh 
ns, open their hearts to ns as brothers." 



TEEASTJEES 



THE POETIC WORLD. 



The Spoils of Time. 






HEKE art thou, Muse, that thou forget'st so long 



To speak of that which gives thee all t thy might? 
Send'st thou thy fury on some worthless song, 

Darkening thy power, to lend base subjects light ? 
Eeturn, forgetful Muse, and straight redeem 

In gentle numbers time so idly spent; 
Sing to the ear that doth thy lays esteem, 

And gives thy pen both skill and argument. 
Eise, restive Muse, my love's sweet face survey, 

If Time have any wrinkle graven there; 
If any, be a satire to decay, 

And make Time's spoils despised everywhere. 
Give my love fame faster than Time wastes life; 
So thou prevent' st his scythe and crooked knife. 



14 TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 

What's in the brain that ink may character, 

Which hath not figured to thee my true spirit? 
What's new to speak, what now to register, 

That may express my love, or thy dear merit? 
Nothing, sweet boy; but yet, like prayers divine, 

I must each day say o'er the very same; 
Counting no old thing old, thou mine, I thine; 

Even as when first I hallowed thy fair name. 
So that eternal love in love's fresh case 

Weighs not the dust and injury of age, 
Nor gives to necessary wrinkles place, 

But makes antiquity for aye his page; 
Finding the first conceit of love there bred, 
Where time and outward form would show it dead 

If there be nothing new, but that which is 

Hath been before, how are our brains beguiled, 
Which laboring for invention bear amiss 

The second burden of a former child! 
0, that record could with a backward look, 

Even of five hundred courses of the sun, 
Show me your image in some antique book 

Since mind at first in character was done! 
That I might see what the old world could say 

To this composed wonder of your frame; 
Whether we are mended, or whe'r better they, 

Or whether revolution be the same. 
0! sure I am, the wits of former days 
To subjects worse have given admiring praise. 



TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 15 

Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore, 

So do our minutes hasten to their end; 
Each changing place with that which goes before, 

In sequent toil all forwards do contend. 
Nativity, once in the main of light, 

Crawls to maturity, wherewith being crowned, 
Crooked eclipses 'gainst his glory fight, 

And Time, that gave, doth now his gift confound. 
Time doth transfix the flourish set on youth, 

And delves the parallels in beauty's brow; 
Feeds on the rarities of nature's truth, 

And nothing stands but for the scythe to mow. 
And yet, to times in hope, my verse shall stand, 
Praising thy worth, despite his cruel hand. 

"When I have seen 'by Time's fell hand defaced 

The rich-proud cost of outworn buried age; 
When sometimes lofty towers I see down-razed, 

And brass eternal, slave to mortal rage; 
When I have seen the hungry ocean gain 

Advantage on the kingdom of the shore, 
And the firm soil win of the wat'ry main, 

Increasing store with loss, and loss with store; 
When I have seen such interchange of state, 

Or state itself confounded to decay; 
Euin hath taught me thus to ruminate: — 

That time will come and take my love away. 
This thought is as a death, which cannot choose 
But weep to have that which it fears to lose. 



16 TREASURES FROK THE POETIC WORLD. 

Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea, 

But sad mortality o'ersways their power, 
How with this rage shall beauty hold a plea, 

Whose action is no stionger than a flower? 
0, how shall Summer's honey breath hold out 

Against the wreckful siege of battering days, 
When rocks impregnable are not so stout, 

Nor gates of steel so strong, but time decays? 
0, fearful meditation! where, alack! 

Shall Time's best jewel from Time's chest lie hid? 
Or what strong hand can Jjold his swift foot back? 

Or who his spoil of beauty can forbid? 
0, none — unless this miracle have might, 
That in black ink my love may still shine bright., 



The Silent Melody. 

: 4 ?EING me my broken harp," he said; 

r / "We both are wrecks — but as ye will- 
Though all its ringing tones have fled, 

Their echoes linger round it still; 
It had some golden strings, I know, 
But that was long — how long! — ago. 

"I can not see its tarnished gold, 
I can not hear its vanished tone, 



TEEASUKES FEOM THE POETIC WORLD. 17 

Scarce can my trembling fingers hold 

The pillared frame so long their own; 
We both are wrecks — a while ago 
It had some silver strings, I know. 

"Brit on them time too long has played 
The solemn strain that knows no change, 

And where of old my fingers strayed 

The chords they find are new and strange — 

Yes, iron strings — I know — I know — 

We both are wrecks of long ago. 

"We both are wrecks — a shattered pair — - 
Strange to ourselves in time's disguise. * * 

What say ye to the lovesick air 

That brought the tears from Marian's eyes? 

Ay! trust me — under breasts of snow 

Hearts could be melted long ago! 

"Or will ye hear the storm songs crash 
That from his dreams the soldier woke, 

And bade him face the lightning's flash 
When battle's cloud in thunder broke? * * 

Wrecks — nought but wrecks! — the time was when 

We two were worth a thousand men." 

And so the broken harp they bring 

With pitying smiles that none could blame; 
Alas! there's not a single string 
2 Of all that filled the tarnished frame! 



18 TEEASUEES FEOM THE POETIC WOELD. 

But see! like the children overjoyed, 
His fingers rambling through the void! 

"I clasp thee! Ay * * * mine ancient lyre * * * 
Nay, guide my wandering fingers * * there! 

They love to dally with the wire 

As Isaac played with Esau's hair. * * * 

Hush! ye shall hear the famous tune 

That Marian called 'The Breath of June!' " 

And so they softly gather round: 

Bapt in his tuneful trance he seems: 

His fingers move; but not a sound! 

A silence like the song of dreams. * * * 

"There! ye have heard the air," he cries, 

"That brought the tears from Marian's eyes!" 

Ah, smile not at his fond conceit, 
Nor deem his fancy wrought in vain; 

To him the unreal sounds are sweet — 
No discord mars the silent strain 

Scored on life's latest, starlit page — 

The voiceless melody of age. 

Sweet are the lips of all that sing, 
When nature's music breathes unsought, 

But never yet could voice or string 
So truly shape our tenderest thought 

As when by fife's decaying fire 

Our fingers sweep the stringless lyre! 



TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 19 



Remembrance. 

«AN hath a weary pilgrimage, 
" As through the world he wends; 
On every stage from youth to age 

Still discontent attends. 
"With heaviness he casts his eye 

Upon the road before, 
And still remembers with a sigh 
The days that are no more. 

To school the little exile goes, 

Torn from his mother arms, — 
What then shall soothe his earliest woes, 

When novelty hath lost its charms? 
Condemned to suffer through the day 
Restraints which no rewards repay, 

And cares where love has no concern, 
Hope lengthens as she counts the hours 

Before his wished return. 
From hard control and tyrant rules, 
The unfeeling discipline of schools, 

In thought he loves to roam, 
And tears will struggle in his eye 
While he remembers with a sigh 

The comforts of his home. 

Youth comes; the toils and cares of life 
Torment the restless mind; 



20 TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 

Where shall the tired and harassed heart 

Its consolation find? 
Then is not Youth, as Fancy tells, 

Life's summer prime of joy ? 
Ah, no! for hopes too long delayed, 
And feelings blasted or betrayed, 

Its fabled bliss destroy; 
And Youth remembers with a sigh 
The careless days of Infancy. 

Maturer Manhood now arrives, 

And other thoughts come on, 
But with the baseless hopes of Youth 

Its generous warmth is gone; 
Cold, calculating cares succeed, 
The timid thought, the wary deed, 

The dull realities of truth; 
Back on the past he turns his eye, 
Bemembering with an envious sigh 

The happy dreams of Youth. 

So reaches he the latter stage 
Of this our mortal pilgrimage, 

With feeble step and slow; 
New ills that latter stage await, 
And old Experience learns too late 

That all is vanity below. 
Life's vain delusions are gone by; 

Its idle hopes are o'er; 
Yet Age remembers with a sigh 

The days that are no more. 



TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 21 



The Dream of Life. 
♦ flip 

i WAS but a bubble, yet 'twas bright, 

r And gayly danced along the stream 
Of life's wild torrent, in the light 

Of sunbeams sparkling like a dream 
Of heaven's own bliss for loveliness — 

For fleetness like a passing thought; 
And ever of such dreams as thee 

The tissue of my life is wrought. 
For I have dreamed of pleasures when 

The sun of young existence smiled 
Upon my wayward path, and then 

Her promised sweets my heart beguiled, 
But when I came those sweets to sip, 
They turned to gall upon my lip. 

And I have dreamed of friendship, too; 

For friendship, I had thought, was made 

To be man's solace in the shade, 
And glad him in the light, and so 

I fondly thought to find a friend 

Whose soul with mine would sweetly blend, 
And, as two placid streams unite 
And roll their waters in one bright 

And tranquil current to the sea, 

So might our happy spirits be 

Borne onward to eternity; 



TKEASUKES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 

But he betrayed me, and with pain 
I woke — to sleep and dream again. 

And then I dreamed of love: and all 
The clustered visions of the past 
Seemed airy nothings to that last 

Bright dream. It threw a magical 
Enchantment o'er existence — cast 

A glory o'er my path so bright, 

I seemed to breathe and feel its light; 
But now that blissful dream is o'er, 
And I have waked to dream no more. 

Beyond the farthest glimmering star 
That twinkles in the arch above, 
There is a world of truth and love 

Which earth's vile passions never mar. 
Oh, could I snatch the eagle's plumes, 

And soar to that bright world away, 
"Which God's own holy light illumes 

With glories of eternal day ! 
How gladly every lingering tie 

That binds me down to earth I'd sever, 
And leave for that blest home on high, 

This hollow-hearted world forever. 



-•^^fe^^fe*^ 



TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 23 



The Old Clock. 

SOMEWHAT back from the village street 
Stands the old-fa shion'd country-seat. 
Across its antique portico 
Tall poplar- trees their shadows throw; 
And from its station in the hall 
An ancient time-piece says to all: 

"Forever, never! Never, forever!" 

Half-way up the stairs it stands, 
And points and beckons with its hands 
From its case of massive oak, 
Like a monk, who, under his cloak, 
Crosses himself, and sighs, alas! 
With sorrowful voice to all who pass: 
" Forever, never! Never, forever!" 

Through days of sorrow and of mirth, 
Through days of death and days of birth, 
Through every swift vicissitude 
Of changeful time, unchanged it stood; 
As if, like God, it all things saw, 
It calmly repeats those words of awe: 
"Forever, never! Never, forever!" 

In that mansion used to be 

Free hearted hospitality; 

His great fires up the chimney roar'd; 



24 TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 

The stranger feasted at his board; 
But, the skeleton at the feast, 
That warning time-piece never ceased: 
"Forever, never! Never, forever!" 

There groups of merry children play'd; 
There youths and maidens, dreaming, stray'd. 
precious hours! golden prime 
And affluence of love and time! 
Even as a miser counts his gold, 
Those hours the ancient time-piece told: 
"Forever, never! Never, forever!" 

From that chamber, clothed in white, 
The bride came forth on her wedding-night. 
There, in that silent room below, 
The dead lay in its shroud of snow! 
And in the hush that follow'd the prayer. 
Was heard the old clock on the stair: 
"Forever, never! Never forever!" 

All are scatter'd now and fled, 
Some are married, some are dead; 
And when I ask, with throbs of pain, 
Ah ! when shall they all meet again, 
As in the days long since gone by? 
The ancient time-piece makes reply: 
"Forever, never! Never, forever!" 

Never here, forever there, 

Where all parting, pain, and care, 



TBEASUBES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 25 

And death, and time shall disappear! 
Forever there, but never here! 
The horologue of eternity 
Sayeth this incessantly: 

"Forever, never! Never, forever!" 



The Painter of Seville. 

Sebastian Gomez, better known by the name of the Mulatto of Murrillo, 
was one of the most celebrated painters of Spain. There may yet be seen in 
the'churches of Seville the celebrated picture which he was found painting, by 
his master, a St. Anne, and a| holy Joseph, which are extremely beautiful, and 
others of the highest merit. The incident related occurred about the year 
1630. 

I WAS morning in Seville, and brightly beamed 
^ The early sunlight in one chamber there; 

Showing where'er its glowing radiance gleamed, 
Eich, varied beauty. 'Twas the study where 
Murrillo, the famed painter, came to share 

With young aspirants his long-cherished art, 
To prove how vain must be the teacher's care, 

Who strives his unbought knowledge to impart, 

The language of the soul, the feeling of the heart. 

The pupils came, and glancing round, 
Mendez upon the canvass found, 
Not his own work of yesterday, 



TEEASUEES FEOM THE POETIC WOELD. 

But, glowing, in the morning ray, 
A sketch, so rich, so pure, so bright, 

It almost seemed that there were given 
To glow before his dazzled sight, 

Tints and expression warm from heaven. 
"Twas but a sketch — the Virgin's head — 
Yet was unearthly beauty shed 

Upon the mildly beaming face; 
The lip, the eye, the flowing hair, 

•Had separate, yet blended grace — 
A poet's brightest dream was there! 

Murillo entered, and amazed, 

On the mysterious painting gazed; 

"Whose work is this? — speak, tell me! — he 
"Who to his aid such power can call," 

Exclaimed the teacher eagerly, 
"Will yet be master of us all; 
Would I had done it! — Fredinand! 
Isturitz! — Mendez! — say, whose hand 
Among ye all?"— '-With half -breathed sigh, 
Each pupil answered, — "'Twas not I!" 
"How came it, then?" impatiently 
Murrillo cried; "but we shall see, 
Ere long, into this mystery, 

Sebastian !" 

At the summons came 
A bright-eyed slave. 



TEEASUBES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 27 

"Who trembled at the stern 'rebuke 

His master gave. 
For, ordered in that room to sleep, 
And faithful guard o'er all to keep, 
Murillo bade him now declare 
What rash intruder had been there, 
And threatened — if he did not tell 
The truth at once — the dungeon cell. 

"Thou answerest not," Murillo said; 
(The boy had stood in speechless fear.) 

"Speak on!" — At last he raised his head 
And murmured, "No one has been here." 

" 'Tis false!" Sebastian bent his knee, 

And clasped his hands imploringly, 

And said, "I swear it, none but me!" 

" List!" said his master. "I would know 

Who enters here — there have been found 

Before, rough sketches strewn around, 
By whose bold hand, 'tis yours to show; 

See that to-night strict watch you keep, 

Nor dare to close your eyes in sleep. 
If on to-morrow morn you fail 

To answer what I ask, 
The lash shall force you — do you hear? 

Hence! to your daily task." 



'Twas midnight in Seville; and faintly shone 
From one small lamp, a dim, uncertain ray 



28 TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 

Within Murillo's study — all were gone 

Who there, in pleasant tasks or converse gay, 
Passed cheerfully the morning hours away. 

'Twas shadowy gloom, and breathless silence, save, 
That to sad thoughts and torturing fear a prey, 

One bright-eyed boy was there — Murillo's little slave. 

Almost a child — that boy had seen 

Not thrice five summers yet, 
But genius marked the lofty brow, 

O'er which his locks of jet 
Profusely curled; his cheek's dark hue 
Proclaimed the warm blood flowing through 
Each throbbing vein, a mingled tide, 
To Africa and Spain allied. 

"Alas! what fate is mine!" he said: 

The lash, if I refuse to tell 
Who sketched those figures — if I do, 

Perhaps e'en more — the dungeon cell!" 
He breathed a prayer to Heaven for aid; 
It came — for soon in slumber laid, 
He slept, until the dawning day 
Shed on his humble couch its ray. 

"I'll sleep no more!" he cried; "and now, 
Three hours of freedom I may gain, 
Before my master comes; for then 
I shall be but a slave again. 

Three blessed hours of freedom! how 



TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 29 

Shall I employ them? — ah! e'en now 
The figure on that canvass traced 
Must be — yes, it must be effaced." 

He seized a brush — the morning light 

Gave to the head a softened glow; 
Gazing enraptured on the sight, 

He cried, " Shall I efface it — No! 
That breathing lip! that beamimg eye! 

Efface them? — I would rather die." 

The terror of the humble slave 

Gave place to the overpowering flow 
Of the high feelings Nature gave — 

Which only gifted spirits know. 

He touched the brow — the lip — it seemed 

His pencil had some magic power; 
The eye with deeper feeling beamed — 

Sebastian then forgot the hour! 
Forgot his master, and the threat 

Of punishment still hanging o'er him 
For with each touch, new beauties met 

And mingled in the face before him. 

At length 'twas finished; rapturously 
He gazed — could aught more beauteous be!-^ 
Awhile absorbed, entranced he stood 
Then started — horror chilled his blood! 
His master and the pupils all 



30 TEEASUEES FEOM THE POETIC WOELD. 

Were there e'en at his side! 

The terror-stricken slave was mute — 

Mercy would be denied, 
E'en could he ask it — so he deemed, 
And the poor boy half lifeless seemed. 

Speechless, bewildered — for a space 
They gazed upon that perfect face, 

Each with an artist's joy; 
At length Murillo silence broke, 
And with affected sternness spoke — 

"Who is your master, boy?" 
"You, senor," said the trembling slave. 
"Nay, who, I mean, instruction gave, 
Before that Virgin's head you drew?" 
Again he answered, "Only you." 
"I gave you none!" Murillo cried. 
"But I have heard," the boy replied, 

"What you to others said." 
"And more than heard," in kinder tone, 
The painter said; " 'tis plainly shown 

That you have profited. 

"What (to his pupils) is' his mead? 

Keward or punishment?" 
"Eeward, reward!" they warmly cried, 

(Sebastian's ear was bent 
To catch the sound he scarce believed, 
But with imploring looks received.) 
"What shall it be?" They spoke of gold 

And of a splendid dress; 



TKEASUBES FKOM THE POETIC WORLD. 31 

But still unmoved Sebastian stood, 
Silent and motionless. 

"Speak!" said Murillo, kindly, "choose 

Your own reward — what shall it be? 
Name what you wish, I'll not refuse: 

Then speak at once and fearlessly." 
"Oh! if I dared!" Sebastian knelt, 

And feelings he could not control, 
(But feared to utter even then) 

With strong emotion, shook his soul. 

"Courage!" his master said, and each 
Essayed, in kind, half-whispered speech, 
To soothe his overpow'ring dread. 
He scarcely heard, till some one said, 

"Sebastian — ask — you have your choice, 
Ask for your freedom.'" At the word, 

The suppliant strove to raise his voice: 
At first but stifled sobs were heard, 
And then his prayer — breathed fervently — 
"0 master, make raj father free!" 
"Him and thyself, my noble boy!" 

Warmly the painter cried; 

Baising Sebastian from his feet, 

He pressed him to his side. 
"Thy talents rare, and filial love, > 

E'en more have fairly won; 
Still be thou mine by other bonds — 

My pupil and my son." 



82 TEEASURES EROM THE POETIC WORLD. 

Murillo knew, e'en when the words 

Of generous feelings passed his lips, 
Sebastian's talents soon must lead 

To fame that would his own eclipse; 
And, constant to his purpose still, 

He joyed to see his pupil gain, 
Beneath his care, such matchless skill 

As made his name the pride of Spain. 



Long Life. 

/j? OUNT not thy life by calendars; for 
\C/ Years shall pass thee by unheeded, whilst an hour- 
Some little fleeting hour, too quickly past — 
May stamp itself so deeply on thy brain, 
Thy latest years shall live upon its joy. 
His life is longest, not whose boneless gums, 
Sunk eyes, wan cheeks, and snow-white hairs bespeak 
Life's limits; no! but he whose memory 
Is thickest set with those delicious scenes 
'Tis sweet to ponder o'er when even falls. 




TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 33 



JOHN DRYDEN 



John Dryden was born on the 9th of August, 1631, in 
Northamptonshire, England ; and his death took place May 
1 st, 1700. His family and connections were Puritan and anti- 
monarchical. The poet was the eldest of a family of four- 
teen. The father's means being limited, he procured his son 
admission to Westminster School, as a King's scholar under 
the famous Dr. Busby. While in this school, Dryden wrote 
some Elegiac verses upon the death of the young Lord Hast- 
ings, in 1649. These verses had the distinction of being 
printed in a bound volume, among others elegies by persons 
of nobility and worth. His education was completed at 
Trinity college; Cambridge, from which institution he re- 
ceived his degree of B. A. 

Dryden's next poem of importance was entitled Heroic 
Stanzas on the Death of Cromwell. In this poem he appears 
to good advantage. His genius, not yet restrained by policy, 
points out clearly the great possibility of the poet. On the 
return of Charles II., Dryden, with equal splendor of diction, 
congratulates the Bestoration. The Bestoration brought 
with it a renewal of the love of the theater, and Dryden 
turned his attention to writing for the stage. Thus he ap- 
pears under various guises. The genius which manifests it- 
self so favorably in Heroic Stanzas on the Death of CromweU x 

2 



34 TEEASUEES EEOM THE POETIC WOELD, 

for policy was led to congratulate the Bestoration, and for 
money and a desire to please the popular taste, was turned 
to writing for the stage. 

Some of his plays met with success, but many of them 
are weak and without character. Dryden's satires were 
overwhelming, and so completely crushed his enemies, that 
he was considered, by good authority, the "undisputed king 
and lawgiver of English literature, during his life." 

He held the position of poet-laureate of England for a 
short time. 

While we wish that Dryden might have avoided his many 
vulgar descents, yet we cannot help admiring the fiery 
energy of his satire, and the freedom and magnificence of 
his verse. 



Ode to the Memory of Mrs. Anne Killigrew. 

tHOU youngest virgin-daughter of the skies 
Made in the last promotion of the blest; 
Whose palms, now phicked from paradise, 
In spreading branches more sublimely rise, 

Eich with immortal green above the rest: 
Whether, adopted to some neighboring star, 

Thou roll'st above us, in thy wand'ring race, 
Or, in procession fixed and regular, 
Mov'st with the heaven-majestic pace; 



TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 35 

Or, called to more superior bliss, 
Thou tread'st, with seraphims, the vast abyss: 
Whatever happy region is thy place, 
Cease thy celestial song a little space; 
Thou wilt have time enough for hymns divine, 

Since heaven's eternal year is thine. 
Hear, then, a mortal Muse thy praise rehearse, 
In no ignoble verse; 

But such as thine own voice did practice Here, 
When thy first fruits of poesy were given; 
To make thyself a welcome inmate there: 
While yet a young probationer 
And candidate of heaven. 

If by traduction came thy mind, , 

Our wonder is the less to find 

A soul so charming from a stock so good; 

Thy father was transfused into thy blood; 

So wert thou bom into a tuneful strain, 

An early, rich, and inexhausted vein. 

But if thy pre-existing soul 

Was formed at first with myriads more, 

It did through all the mighty poets roll, 

Who Greek or Latin laurels wore. 
And was that Sappho last, which once it was before. 
If so, then cease thy flight, heaven-born mind! 
Thou hast no dross to purge, from thy rich ore- 
Nor can thy soul a fairer mansion find 
Than was the beauteous frame she left behind. 
Eeturn to fill or mend the choir of thy celestial kind. 



86 TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 

gracious God! how far have we 
Profaned thy heav'nly gift of poesy? 
Made prostitute and profligate the Muse, 
Debased to each obscene and impious use, 
Whose harmony was first ordained above 
For tongues of angels and for hymns of love? 
wretched we! why were we hurried down 

This lubiique and adulterate age — 
Nay, added fat pollutions of our own — 

T' increase the steaming ordures of the stage? 
What can we say t' excuse our second fall? 
Let this thy vestal, heaven, atone for all; 
Her Arethusian stream remains unsoiled, 
Unmixed with foreign filth, and undefiled; 
Her wit was more than man; her innocence a child. 

*■ * *■ * * . . * 

When in mid-air the golden trump shall sound, 
To raise the nations under ground; 
When in the valley of Jehoshaphat, 
The judging God shall close the book of fate; 
And there the last assizes keep 
For those who wake, and those who sleep; 
The sacred poets first shall hear the sound, 
And foremost from the tomb shall bound, 
For they are covered with the lightest ground; 
And straight, with inborn vigor, on the wing, 
Like mountain larks, to the new morning sing. 
There thou, sweet saint, before the choir shall go, 
As harbinger of heaven, the way to show, 
The way which thou so well hast learnt below. 



TEEASUEES FEOM THE POETIC WOELD. 37 



JOSEPH ADDISON. 



Joseph Addison, born May 1, 1672, died June 17, 1719, 
was the eldest son of Launcelot Addison, Dean of Lichfield. 
Addison passed through several schools, and finally, at the 
age of about fifteen, entered Oxford. While at Oxford, he 
was noted for his skill in Latin versification. He took his 
master's degree in 1693. 

Addison held several public offices, and was for ten years 
a member of Parliament. His political life added nothing to 
his fame. To know and love him, we must be familiar with 
his life and writings. His chief works as an author are the 
following : Contributions to The Tattler and The Spectator, 
Tragedy of Cato, and Hymns. He left an unfinished work on 
the Evidences of the Christian Religion. 

"Addison's prose works constitute the chief source of his 
fame ; but his muse proved the architect of his fortune, and 
led him first to distinction." He did much for the literature 
of his time, and a "peculiar charm keeps his writings as 
green as in the days of Queen Anne." 

Addison's style is perfect after its kind. Dr. Johnson says 
"that whoever wishes to attain an English style, familiar but 
not coarse, and elegant but not ostentatious, must give his 
days and nights to the volumes of Addison." It is true that 



38 TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 

he has given a delicacy to English sentiment, and a modesty 
to English wit, which it never knew before. 
The following beautiful lines show his style: 



v7 00N as the evening shades prevail, 
V"4 The moon takes up the wonderous tale, 
And nightly to the listening earth 
Eepeats the story of her birth; 
And all the stars that round her burn, 
And all the planets in their turn 
Confirm the tidings as they roll, 
And spread the truth from pole to pole. 

What though, in solemn silence, all 
Move round this dark terrestrial ball; 
What though no real voice nor sound 
Among their radiant orbs be found: 
In reason's ear they all rejoice, 
And utter forth a glorious voice, 
Forever singing as they shine, 
The Hand that made us is divine! 



%£ 

%*%&&- 



TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 39 



From Tragedy of Oato. 

)T must be so — Plato, thou reason'st well! 
Else whence this pleasing hope, this fond desire, 
This longing after immortality? 
Or whence this secret dread, and inward horror, 
Of falling into nought? why shrinks the soul 
Back on herself, and startles at destruction? 
'Tis the divinity that stirs within us; 
'Tis heaven itself that points out an hereafter, 
And intimates eternity to man, 
Eternity! thou pleasing, dreadful thought! 
Through what variety of untried being, 
Through what new scenes and changes must we pass? 
The wide, th' unbounded prospect lies before me; 
But shadows, clouds, and darkness rest upon it. 
Here will I hold. If there's a power above us — 
And that there is, all nature cries aloud 
Through all her works — he must delight in virtue; 
And that which he delights in must be happy. 
But when? or where? This world was made for Caesar. 
I'm weary of conjectures. This must end them. 

. [Laying his hand on his sword. 
Thus am I doubly armed: my death and life, 
My bane and antidote, are both before me: 
This in a moment brings me to an end; 
But this informs me I shall never die. 



40 TEEASUEES EEOM THE POETIC WOELD. 

The soul, secured in her existence, smiles 
At the drawn dagger, and defies its point. 
The stars shall fade away, the sun himself 
Grow dim with age, and nature sink in years; 
But thou shalt flourish in immortal youth, 
Unhurt amidst the wars of elements, 
The wreck of matter, and the crush of worlds. 

What means this heaviness that hangs upon me? 
This lethargy that creeps through all my senses? 
Nature oppressed, and harassed out with care, 
Sinks down to rest. This once I'll favor her, 
That my awakened soul may take her. flight, 
Kenewed in all her strength, and fresh with life, 
An offering fit for heaven. Let guilt or fear 
Disturb man's rest: Cato knows neither of them; 
Indifferent in his choice to sleep or die. 



The Irish Emigrant. 

I 'M sitting on the stile, Mary, 

iSJ Where we sat side by side, 
On a bright May morning long ago, 
When first you were my bride. 

The corn was springing fresh and green, 
And the lark sang loud and high, 



TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 41 

And the red was on your lip, Mary, 
And the love light in your eye. 

The place is little changed, Mary, 

The day's as bright as then; 
The lark's loud song is in my ear, 

And the corn is green again. 

But I miss the soft clasp of your hand, 

And your warm breath on my' cheek, 
And I still keep listening for the words 

You never more may speak. 

'Tis but a step down yonder lane, 

The village church stands near, — 
The church where we were wed, Mary, 

I see the spire from here. 

But the graveyard lies between, Mary, 

And my step might break your rest, 
Where I've laid you, darling, down to sleep 

With your baby on your breast. 

I'm very lonely now, Mary, 

For the poor make no new friends; 
But, oh, they love the better 

The few our Father sends. 

And you were all I had, Mary, 
My blessing and my pride; 



42 TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 

There's nothing left to care for now, 
Since my poor Mary died. 

I'm bidding you a long farewell, 

My Mary kind and true, 
But I'll not forget you, darling, 

In the land I'm going to. 

They say there's bread and work for all, 
And the sun shines always there, 

But I'll not forget old Ireland, 
"Were it fifty times less fair. 



The Two Mysteries. 



In the middle of the room, in its white coffin, lay the dead child, a 
nephew of the poet. Near it, in a great chair, sat Walt Whitman, sur- 
rounded by little ones, and holding a beautiful little girl on his lap. The 
child looked curiously at the spectacle of death and then inquiringly into 
the old man's face. "You don't know what it is, do you, my dear?" said 
he, adding, "We don't, either." 

E know not what it is, dear, this sleep so deep and still, 
The folded hands, the awful calm, the cheek so pale and 
chill; 
The lids that will not lift again, though we may call and call 
The strange, white solitude of peace that settles over all. 



TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 43 

We know not what it means, dear, this desolate heart-pain; 
This dread to take our daily way, and walk in it again; 
We know not to what other sphere the loved who leave us go 
Nor why we're left to wonder still; nor why we do not know. 

But this we know: Our loved and dead, if they should come 

this day — 
Should come and ask us, "What is life?" not one of us could 

say. 
Life is a mystery as deep as ever death can be; 
Yet oh, how sweet it is to us, this life we live and see! 

Then might they say — these vanished ones — and blessed is the 

thought ! 
" So death is sweet to us, beloved ! though we may tell ye naught ; 
We may not tell it to the quick — this mystery of death — 
Ye may not tell us, if ye would, the mystery of breath." 

The child who enters life comes not with knowledge or intent, 
So those who enter death must go as little children sent. 
Nothing is known. But I believe that God is overhead; 
And as life is to the living, so death is to the dead. 1 




44 TEEASUEES FEOM THE POETIC WOELD. 



Among the Beautiful Pictures. 

i > 

/^MONG- the' beautiful pictures 
/V * That hang on Memory's wall, 
Is one of a dim old forest, < 

That seemeth best of all; 
Not for its gnarled oaks olden, 

Dark with the mistletoe; 
Not for the violets golden 

That sprinkle the vale below; 

Not for the milk-white lilies 

That lean from the fragrant ledge, 
Coquetting all day with the sunbeams 

And stealing their golden edge; 
Not for the vines on the upland, 

Where the bright red berries rest; 
Nor the pinks, nor the pale, sweet cowslip, 

It seemeth to me the best. 

I once had a little brother 

With eyes that were dark and deep; 
In the lap of that old dim forest 

He lieth in peace asleep; 
Light as the down of the thistle, 

Free as the winds that blow, 
We roved there the beautiful summers, 

The summers of long aero; 






TBEASUEES FEOM THE POETIC WOKLD. 45 

But his feet on the hills grew weary 

And one of the autumn eves 
I made for my little brother 

A bed of the yellow leaves. 

Sweetly his pale arms folded 

My neck in a meek embrace, 
As the light of immortal beauty 

Silently covered his face; 
And when the arrows of sunset 

Lodged in the tree-tops bright, 
He fell, in his saint-like beauty, 

Asleep by the gates of light. 
Therefore of all the pictures 

That hang on Memory's wall, 
The one of the dim old forest 

Seemeth the best of all. 



The Bride. 



J CAME, but she was gone. 
In her fair home, 
There lay her lute, just as she touched it last, 
At summer twilight, when the woodbine cups 
Filled with pure fragrance. On her favorite seat 
Lay the still open work-box and that book 



46 TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 

Which last she read, its penciled margin marked 
By an ill-quoted passage — traced, perchance, 
With hand unconscious, while her lover spake 
That dialect which brings forgetfulness 
Of all besides. It was the cherished home, 
Where, from her childhood, she had been the star 
Of hope and joy. 

I came — and she was gone. 
Yet I had seen her from the altar led, 
With silvery veil but slightly swept aside, 
The fresh, young rose-bud deepening in her cheek, 
And on her brow the sweet and solemn thought 
Of one who gives a priceless gift away. 
And there was silence 'mid the gathered throng; 
The stranger, and the hard of heart, did draw 
Their breath suppressed, to see the mother's lip 
Turn ghastly pale, and the majestic sire 
Shrinks as with smothered sorrow, when he gave 
His darling to an untried guardianship, 
And to a far-off clime. 

Haply his thought 
Traversed the grass-grown prairies, and the shore 
Of the cold lakes; or those o'erhanging cliffs, 
And pathless mountain-top, that rose to bar 
Her long-reared mansion from the anxious eye 
Of kindred and of friend. Even triflers felt 
How strong and beautiful is woman's love, 
That, taking in its hand its thornless joys, 
The tenderest melodies of tuneful years, 
Yea! and its own life also — lays them all, 



TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 47 

Meek and unblenching, on a mortal's breast 
Reserving nought, save that unspoken hope 
Which hath its root in God. 

Mock not with mirth 
A scene like this, ye laughter-loving ones; 
The licensed jester's lip, the dancer's heel — 

"What do they here? 

Joy, serious and sublime, 

Such as doth nerve the energies of prayer, 

Should swell the, bosom when a maiden's hand, 

Pilled with life's dewy flow'rets, girdeth on 

That harness, which the ministry of Death 

Alone unlooses, but whose fearful power 

May stamp the sentence of Eternity. 



Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard. 

tHE curfew tolls the knell of parting day; 
The lowing herds wind slowly o'er the lea; 
The ploughman homeward plods his weary way 
And leaves the world to darkness and to me. 

Now fades the ghmmering landscape on the sight, 

And all the air a solemn stillness holds, 
Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, 

And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds; — 



48 TKEASUEES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 

Save that, from yonder ivy-mantled tower, 
The moping owl does to the moon complain 

Of such as, wandering near her secret bower, 
Molest her ancient, solitary reign. 

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, 
Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap, 

Each in his narrow cell forever laid, 

The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. 

The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, 

The swallow, twittering from the straw-built shed, 

The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, 
No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. 

For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn 
Or busy housewife ply her evening care: ' 

Nor children run to lisp their sire's return, 
Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share. 

Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield: 

Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke; 

How jocund did they drive their team a-field! 

How bowed the woods beneath their sturdy stroke! 

Let not Ambition mock their useful toh\ 
Their homely joys, and destiny obscure; 

Nor Grandeur hear, with a disdainful smile, 
The short and simple annals of the poor. 



TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD 49 

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, 
And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, 

Await, alike, the inevitable hour; — 

The paths of glory lead but to the grave. 

Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault, 
If memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise, 

Where, through the long-drawn aisle, and fretted vault 
The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. 

Can storied urn, or animated bust, 

Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? 

Can Honor's voice provoke the silent dust, 

Or Flattery soothe the dull, cold ear of death? 

Perhaps, in this neglected spot, is laid 

Some heart, once pregnant with celestial fire; 

Hands, that the rod of empire might have swayed, 
Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre. 

But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page, 
Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unroll; 

Chill Penury repressed their noble rage, 
And froze the genial current of the soul. 

Full many a gem, of purest ray serene, 

The dark, unfathomed caves of ocean bear; 

Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, 
And waste its sweetness on the desert air. 



50 TREASURES FROM. THE POETIC WORLD. 

Some village Hampden, that, with dauntless breast, 
The little tyrant of his fields withstood; 

Some mute, inglorious Milton here may rest; 
Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's blood. 

The applause of listening senates to command, 
The threats of pain and ruin to despise, 

To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, 
And read their history in a nation's eyes, 

Their lot forbade; nor circumscribed alone 

Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined;— 

Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne, 
And shut the gates of mercy on mankind; 

The struggling pangs of conscious Truth to hide, 
To quench the blushes of ingenuous Shame, 

Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride 
With incense kindled at the Muse's flame. 

Far from the maddening crowd's ignoble strife, 
Their sober wishes never learned to stray: 

Along the cool, sequestered vale of life, 

They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. 

Yet, e'en these bones from insult to protect, 

Some frail memorial, still erected nigh, 
With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture decked, 

Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. 

Their name, their years, spelled by the unlettered Muse,] 
The place of fame and elegy supply; 



TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 51 

And many a holy text around she strews, 
That teach the rustic moralist to die. 

For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey, 

This pleasing, anxious being e'er resigned, — 

Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, — 
Nor cast one longing, lingering look behind? 

On some fond breast the parting soul relies; 

Some pious drops the closing eye requires: 
E'en from the tomb the voice of Nature cries, 

E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires. 

For thee, who, mindful of th' unhonored dead, 

Dost in these lines their artless tale relate 
If, chance, by lonely Contemplation led, 

Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate, 

Haply, some hoary-headed swain may say, 
"Oft have we seen him, at the peep of dawn, 

Brushing, with hasty steps, the dews away, 
To meet the sun upon the upland lawn. 

"There, at the foot of yonder nodding beech, 
That wreathes its old, fantastic roots so high, 

His listless length at noontide would he stretch, 
And pore upon the brook that babbles by. 

"Hard by yon wood, now smiling, as in scorn, 
Muttering his wayward fancies, he would rove; 

Now drooping, woful, wan, like one forlorn, 

Or crazed with care, or crossed in hopeless love. 



52 TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD 

"One morn I missed him on the accustomed hill, 
Along the heath, and near his favorite tree: 

Another came; nor yet beside the rill, 

Nor up the lawn, nor "at the wood was he. 

"The next, with dirges due, in sad array, 

Slow through the churchway path we saw him borne. 

Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay 
Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn : " 



THE EPITAPH. 

Here rests his head upon the lap of earth 
A youth, to fortune and to fame unknown: 

Fair Science frowned not on his humble birth, 
And Melancholy marked him for her own. 

Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere: 
Heaven did a recompense as largely send: 

He gave to misery all he had — a tear: — 

He gained from Heaven — 'twas all he wished — a friend, 

No farther seek his merits to disclose, 

Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, 

(There they, alike, in trembling hope, repose,) 
The bosom of his Father and his God. 



TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 53 



Daniel Gray. 

In all of the late Dr. Holland's writings we know of nothing which 
equals in pathos and tenderness the following beautiful poem, and its value 
is enhanced when it is known that the author described his own father in 
"Old Daniel Gray": 

1 F I shall ever win the home in heaven, 
A For whose sweet rest I humbly pray, 
In the great company of the forgiven, 
I shall be sure to find old Daniel Gray. 

Old Daniel Gray was not a man who lifted 
On ready words his weight of gratitude, 

And was not called among the gifted, 

In the prayer-meeting of his neighborhood. 

He had a few old-fashioned words and phrases, 
Linked in with sacred texts and Sunday rhymes, 

And I suppose that in his prayers and graces 
I've heard them at least a thousand times. 

I see him now — his form, his face, his motions, 
His homespun habit and his silver hair, 

And hear the language of his trite devotions, 
Eising behind the straight-backed kitchen chair. 

I can remember how the sentence sounded — 
" Help us, Lord, to pray and not to faint!" 



54 TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 

And how the " conquering and to conquer" rounded 
The loftier inspirations of the saint. 

He had some notions that did not improve him: 
He never kissed his children — so they say, 

And finest scenes and fairest flowers would move him 
Less than a horse-shoe picked up on his way. 

He had a hearty hatred of oppression, 

And righteous word for sin of any kind: - 

Alas, that the transgressor and transgression 
Were linked together in his honest mind. 

He could see naught but vanity in beauty, 
And naught but weakness in a fond caress, 

And pitied men whose views of Christian duty 
Allowed indulgence in such foolishness. 

Yet there were love and tenderness within him, 
And I am told that when his Charley died, 

Nor nature's needs nor gentle words could win him 
From his fond vigils at the sleeper's side. 

And when they came to bury little Charley, 

They found fresh dew-drops sprinkled in his hair; 

And on his breast a rose-bud gathered early, 

And guessed, but did not know, who put it there. 

Honest and faithful, consistent in his calling, 
Strictly attendant on the means of grace, 



iTREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 55 

Instant in prayer, and fearful most of failing, 
Old Daniel Gray was always in his place. 

A practical old man and yet a dreamer, 

He thought in some strange, unlooked-for way, 

His mighty Friend in Heaven, the great Eedeemer, 
Would honor him with wealth some golden day. 

This dream he carried in a hopeful spirit, 

Until in death his patient eye grew dim, 
And his Eedeemer called him to inherit 

The heaven of wealth long gathered up for him. 

So if I ever win the home in heaven, 

For whose sweet rest I humbly hope and pray, 

In the great company of the forgiven, 
I shall be sure to find old Daniel Gray. 




5G TEEASUEES FEOM THE POETIC WOELD. 



ROBERT BURNS. 



Eobeet Buens, the great lyric poet of Scotland, was born 
January 25, 1759, in a small cottage near Ayr ; and, broken 
in health, he died July 21, 1796. Burns' parents were poor, 
but they possessed excellent qualities of head and heart, and 
did all in their power to educate their children. By habits of 
industry and study, Burns acquired a large fund of informa- 
tion. While a plow-boy, at. the age of sixteen, he commenced 
composing verses in the Scottish dialect. These verses at- 
tracted much attention, and helped to widen the circle of 
his acquaintance. 

Among the poems which his first volume contained, were 
the following : The Tiva Dogs, The Author's Prayer, 
Address to the Deil, The Vision, The Dream, Halloiv- 
een, Cotter s Saturday Night, To a Mouse, To a Daisy, 
Man Was Made to Mourn. This volume fully established 
the author's fame, and constituted the turning-point in his 
life. "The people murmured of him from sea to sea." He 
was at once invited to Edinburgh, where he was "welcomed 
among the scholars of the northern capital and its univer- 
sity," and brought into the literary circles of the age. 




ROBERT BURNS. 




TEEASUEES FEOM THE POETIC WOELD. 57 

While a plow-boy we find him wishing 

"That I for poor auld Scotland's sake 

Some useful plan or book could make, 

Or sing a sang, at least." 

He wrote Auld Lang Syne, Tarn O'Shanter, and 
many of his best songs are still ringing in the ear of every 
Scotchman the wide world over. In short, the world of pop- 
ular song is sweeter because of his having written, and the 
world of literature is filled with quotations from him. We 
love him notwithstanding his faults, and should be lonesome 
without him. Burns compares himself to an iEolian harp, 
tuned to every wind of heaven. "His genius flows over all 
living and lifeless things, with a sympathy that finds noth- 
ing mean or insignificant." 

Burns held offices, but none of importance. He wrote 
extensively, for one who did not leave the plow till he was 
twenty-five, and who died at thirty- seven. We will at once 
throw a veil over his faults, for they were errors of head and 
passion, and not of the heart. Lowland Scotland has four 
names that she looks upon with a feeling akin to reverence. 
William Wallace and Bobert Bruce fought her battles and 
made her history, but Bobert Burns and Walter Scott wrote 
her history and sang her songs. 



58 TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 



The Cotter's Saturday Night: 

"Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, 
Their homely joys, and destiny obscure; 

Nor Grandeur hear, with a disdainful smile, 
The short but simple annals of the poor." —Gray. 

«Y loved, my honored, much respected friend, 
v No mercenary bard his homage pays; 
With honest pride I scorn each selfish end, 

My dearest meed a friend's esteem and praise; 
To you I sing, in simple Scottish lays, 

The lowly train in life's sequestered scene; 
The native feelings strong, the guileless ways; 
What Aiken in a cottage would have been; 
Ah! though his worth unknown, far happier there, I ween. 

November chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh; 

The short'ning Winter day is near a close; 
The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh, 

The black'ning trains o' craws to their repose; 
The toil-worn cotter frae his labor goes, — 

This night his weekly moil is at an end, 
Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his hoes, 

Hoping the morn in ease and rest to spend, 

And weary, o'er the moor, his course does homeward bend. 

At length his lonely cot appears in view, 
Beneath the shelter of an aged tree; 



TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 59 

Th' expectant wee things, toddlin, stacker through, 
To meet their dad wi' flichterin noise and glee. 

His wee bit ingle blinkin bonnily, 

His clean hearthstane, his thriftie wine's smile, 

The lisping infant prattling on his knee, 
Does a' his weary, carking cares beguile, 
An' makes him quite forget his labor an' his toil. 

Belyve, the elder bairna came drappin in, 

At service out, amang the farmers roun'; 
Some ca' the pleugh, some herd, some tentie rin 

A cannie errand to a neebor town. 
Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman grown, 

In youthful bloom, love sparklin in her e'e, 
Comes hame, perhaps, to show a brawn-new gown, 

Or deposit her sair-won penny fee, 

To help her parents dear, if they in hardship be. 

Wi' joy unfeigned, brothers and sisters meet, 

An' each for other's weelfare kindly spiers; 
The social hours, swift- winged, unnoticed, fleet; 

Each tells the unco's that he sees or hears; 
The parents' partial eye their hopeful years; 

Anticipation forward points the view; 
The mother, wi' her needle an' her sheers, 

Gars auld claes look amaist as weel's the new; 

The father mixes a' wi' admonition due. 

Their master's and their mistress' command, ] 
The younkers' a' are warned to obey; 



60 TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD 

An' mind their labors wi' an eydent hand, 

An' ne'er though out o' sight to jauk or play; 
"An' oh, be sure to fear the Lord alway! 

An' mind your duty, duly, morn and night! 
Leest in temptation's path ye gang astray, 

Implore his counsel and assisting might; 

They never sought in vain that sought the Lord aright!" 

But hark! a rap comes gently to the door; 

Jenny, wha kens the meaning o' the same, 
Teils how a neebor lad came o'er the moor, 

To do some errands, and convoy her hame. 
The wily mother sees the conscious flame 

Sparkle in Jenny's e'e, and flush her cheek; 
With heart-struck, anxious care inquires his name, 

While Jenny hamins is afraid to speak; 

Weel pleased the mother hears it's nae wild, worthless rake. 

Wi' kindly welcome Jenny brings him ben; 

A strappan youth; he takes the mother's eye;. 
Blithe Jenny sees the visit's no ill ta'en; 

The father cracks of horses, pleughs, and kye. 
The youngster's artless heart o'erflows wi' joy, 

But blate and laithfu', scarce can weel behave; 
The mother, wi' a woman's wiles, can spy 

What makes the youth sae bashfu' an' sae grave; 

Weel pleased to think her bairn's respected like the lave.^ 

O happy love! where love like this is found! 
heartfelt raptures! bliss beyond compare! 



TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 61 

I've paced much this weary, mortal round, 

And sage experience bids me this declare — 
"If heaven a draught of heavenly pleasures spare, 

One cordial in this melancholy vale, 
'Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair 

In other's arms breathe out the tender tale, 

Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the evening gale." 

Is there a human form, that bears a heart, 

A wretch, a villain, lost to love and truth, 
That can with studied, sly, ensnaring art, 

Betray sweet Jenny's unsuspecting youth? 
Curse on his perjured arts; dissembling, smooth, 

All honor, virtue, conscience, all exiled; 
Is there no pity, no relenting ruth, 

Points to the parents fondling o'er their child, 

Then paints the ruined maid, and the distraction wild? 

But now the supper crowns their simple board, 

The halesome parritch, chief o' Scotia's food; 
Their soupe their only Hawkie does afford; 

That yont the hallan snugly chaws her cood: 
The dame brings forth in complimental mood, 

To grace the lad, her weel-hained kebbuck, fell, 
An' aft he's prest, an, aft he ca's it guid; 

The frugal wine, garrulous, will tell, 

How 'twas a towmond auld, sin' lint was i' the bell. 

The cheerfu' supper done, wi' serious face, 
They, round the ingle, form a circle wide; 



62 TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 

The sire turns o'er, wi' patriarchal grace, 

The big ha' Bible ance his father's pride; 
His bonnet rev'rently is laid aside, 

His lyart haffets wearing thin an' bare: 
Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide, 

He wales a portion with judicious care; 

And, "Let us worship God!" he says, with solemn air. 

They chant their artless notes in simple guise: 

They tune their hearts, by far the noblest aim. 
Perhaps Dundee's wild, warbling measures rise, 

, Or plaintive Martyrs, worthy of the name; 
Or noble Elgin beats the heavenward flame, 

The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays: 
Compared with these Italian trills are tame; 

The tickled ears no heartfelt raptures raise; 

Nae unison hae they with our Creator's praise. 

The priest-like father reads the sacred page, 

How Abram was the friend of God on high 
Or Moses bade eternal warfare wage 

With Amalek's ungracious progeny; 
Or how the royal bard did groaning lie 

Beneath the strokes of heaven's avenging ire 
Or Job's pathetic plaint and wailing cry; 

Or rapt Isaiah's wild, seraphic fire; 

Or other holy seers that tune the sacred lyre. 

Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme, 
How guiltless blood for guilty man was shed; 



TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 63 

How he, who bore in heaven the second name, 

Had not on earth whereon to lay his head; 
How his first followers and servants sped; 

The precepts sage they wrote to many a land; 
How he who lone in Patmos banished, 

Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand, 

And heard great Bab'lon's doom pronounced by heaven's 
command. 

Then kneeling down, to heaven's eternal King, 

The saint, the father, and the husband prays: 
Hope "springs exulting on triumphant wing," 

That thus they all shall meet in future days, 
There ever bask in uncreated rays, 

No more to sigh, or shed the bitter tear, 
Together hymning their Creator's praise. 

In such society, yet still more dear; 

While circling time moves round in an eternal sphere. 

Compared with this, how poor Religion's pride, 

In all the pomp of method, and of art, 
When men display to congregations wide 

Devotion's every grace, except the heart! 
The Power, incensed, the pageant will desert, 

The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole; 
But happy, in some cottage far apart, 

May hear, well pleased, the language of the soul, 

And in his book of life the inmates poor enroll. 

Then homeward all take off their several way; 
The youngling cottagers retire to rest; 






64 TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 

The parent-pair their secret homage pay, 

And proffer up to heaven the warm request 
That he, who stills the raven's clamorous nest, 

And decks the lily fair in flowery pride, 
Would, in the way his wisdom sees the best, 

For them and for their little ones provide; 

But chiefly in their hearts with grace divine preside. 

\From scenes like these old Scotia's grandeur springs, 
That makes her loved at home, revered abroad; 

Princes and lords are but the breath of kings; 
"An honest man's the noblest work of Grod;" 

And certes, in fair Virtue's heavenly road, 
The cottage leaves the palace far behind. 

"What is a lordling's pomp? a cumbrous load, 
Disguising oft the wretch of human kind, 
Studied in arts of hell, in wickedness refined. 

Scotia, my dear, my native soil, 

For whom my warmest wish to heaven is sent, 
Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil 

Be blessed with health, and peace, and sweet content; 
And oh, may Heaven their simple lives prevent 

From luxury's contagion, weak and vile; 
Then, howe'er crowns and coronets be rent, 

A virtuous populace may rise the while, 

And stand a wall of fire around their much-loved isle. 

thou who poured the patriotic tide 

That streamed through Wallace's undaunted heart; 



[TEEASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 65 

Who dared to nobly stern tyrannic pride, 

Or nobly die, the second glorious part, 
(The patriot's God peculiarly thou art, 

His friend, inspirer, guardian, and reward!) 
Oh never, never, Scotia's realm desert: 

But still the patriot, and the patriot bard, 

In bright succession raise, her ornament and guard. 



Whistling in Heaven. 

tOU'EE surprised that I ever should say so? 
Just wait till the reason I've given 
Why I say I shan't care for the music, 

Unless there is whistling in heaven; 
Then you'll think it no very great wonder, 

Nor so strange, or bold a conceit, 
That unless there's a boy there a- whistling, 
Its music will not be complete. 

It was late in the autumn of '40 ; 

We had come from our far Eastern home 
Just in season to build us a cabin, 

Before the cold of the winter should come; 
And we lived all the while in our wagon, 

That husband was clearing the place 
Where the house was to stand; ; and the clearing 

And building it took many days. 



66 TEEASUEES FEOM THE POETIC WOELD. 

So that our heads were scarce sheltered 

In under its roof, when our store 
Of provisions was almost exhausted, 

And husband must journey for more; 
And the nearest place where he could get them 

Was yet such a distance away, 
That it forced him from home to be absent 

At least a whole night and a day. 

You see, we'd but two or three neighbors, 

And the nearest was more than a mile; 
And we hadn't found time yet to know them, 

For we had been busy the while; 
And the man who had helped at the raising 

Just staid till the job was all done; 
And soon as his money was paid him 

Had shouldered his ax and had gone. 

Well, husband just kissed me and started, 

I could scarcely suppress a deep groan 
At the thought of remaining with baby 

So long in the house all alone; 
For my dear, I was childish and timid, 

And braver ones might well have feared, 
For the wild wolf was often heard howling, 

And savages sometimes appeared. 

But I smothered my grief and my terror 
Till husband was off on his ride, 



TEEASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 67 

And then in my arms I took Josey, 

And all the day long sat and cried, 
As I thought of the long dreary hours 

When the darkness of night should fall, 
And I was so utterly helpless, 

With no one in reach of my call! 

And when the night with its terrors, 

To hide every ray of light, 
I hung my quilt by the window, 

And almost dead with affright, 
I kneeled by the side of the cradle, 

Scarce daring to draw my breath, 
Lest the baby should wake, and its crying 

Should bring us a horrible death. 

There I knelt until late in the evening, 

And scarcely an inch had I stirred, 
When suddenly, far in the distance, ' 

A sound as of whistling I heard; 
I started up dreadfully frightened, 

For fear 'twas an Indian's dread call; 
And then very soon I remembered 

The red man ne'er whistles at all. 

And when I was sure 'twas a white man, 
I thought were he coming for ill, 

He'd surely approach with more caution- 
Would come without warning, and still. 



TEEASUEES FEOM THE POETIC WOELD. 

Then the sounds coming nearer and nearer, 
Took the form of a tune light and gay, 

And I knew I needn't fear evil 

From one that could whistle that way. 

Very' soon I heard footsteps approaching, 

Then came a peculiar dull thump, 
As if some one was heavily striking 

An ax in the top of a stump; 
And then in another brief moment 

There came a light tap at the door, 
And quickly I undid the fastenings, 

And in stepped a boy, and before 

There was either a question or answer, 

Or either had time to speak, 
I just threw my glad arms around him, 

And gave him a kiss on his cheek. 
Then I started back, scared at my boldness, 

But he only smiled at my fright, 
As he said, "I am your neighbor boy, Elick, 

Come to tarry with you through the night. 

"We saw your husband go eastward, 

And made up our mind where he'd gone, 

And I said to the rest of our people, 
1 That woman is there all alone, 

And I venture she's awfully lonesome, 
And though she may have no great fear, 



TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 

I think she would feel a hit safer 
If only a hoy were but near.' 

"So, taking my ax on my shoulder 

For fear that a savage might stray 
Across my path, and need scalping, 

I started right down this way; 
And coming in sight of the cabin, 

And thinking to save you alarm 
I whistled a tune, just to show you 

I didn't intend any harm. 

"And so here I am at your service, 

And if you don't want me to stay, 
Why, all you need do is to say so, 

And, should'ring my ax, I'll away." 
I dropped in a chair and near fainted, 

Just at the thought of his leaving me then, 
And his eye gave a knowing bright twinkle, 

As he said, "I guess I'll remain." 

And then I just sat there and told him 

How terribly frightened I'd been, 
How his face was most welcome 

Of any I ever had seen; 
And then I laid down with the baby, 

And slept all the blessed night through, 
For I felt I was safe from all danger 

Near so brave a young fellow and true. 



70 TREASURES EEOM THE POETIC WORLD. 

So my young friend, do you wonder, 

Since such a good reason I've given, 
Why I say I shan't care for the music 

Unless there is whistling in heaven? 
Yes, often I've said so in earnest, 

And now what I've said I repeat, 
That unless there's a hoy there a-whistlin^ 

Its music will not he complete. 



The Changed Cross. 

IT was i time of sadness, and my heart, 
A^iiough it knew and loved the hetter part, 
Felt wearied with the conflict and the strife, 
And all the needful discipline of life. 

And while I thought on these as given to me — 
My trial tests of faith and love to he — 
It seemed as if I never could be sure 
That faithful to the end I should endure. 

And thus, no longer trusting to His might, 
Who says, "We walk by faith and not by sight," 
Doubting, and almost yielding to despair, 
The thought arose — My cross I cannot bear. 



TREASUEES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 71 

Far heavier i ts weight must surely be 
Than those of others which I daily see. 
Oh! if I might another burden choose, 
Methinks I should not fear my crown to lose. 

A solemn silence reigned on all around — 
E'en Nature's voices uttered not a sound; 
The evening shadows seemed of peace to tell, 
And sleep upon my weary spirit fell. 

A moment's pause— and then a heavenly light 
Beamed full upon my wondering, raptured sight; 
Angels en silvery wings seemed everywhere, 
And angels' music thrilled the balmy air. 

Then One, more fair than all the rest to see — 
One to whom all the others bowed the knee — 
Came gently to me as I trembling lay, 
And ''Follow me!" He said; "I am the Way." 

Then, speaking thus, He led me far above, 
And there, beneath the canopy of love, 
Crosses of divers shape and size were seen, 
Larger and smaller than my own had been. 

And one there was, most beauteous to behold, 
A little one with jewels set in gold. 
Ah! this, me thought, I can with comfort wear, 
For it will be an easy one to bear: 

And. so the little cross I quickly took, 

But, all at once, my frame beneath it shook; 



72 TREASURES FBOM THE POETIC WORLD. 

The sparkling jewels fair were they to see, 
But far too heavy was their weight for me. 

"This may not be," I cried, and looked again, 
To see if there was any here could ease my pain; 
But, one by one, I passed them slowly by, 
Till on a lovely one I cast my eye. 

Fair flowers around its sculptured form entwined, 
And grace and beauty seemed in it combined 
Wondering, I gazed, — and still I wondered more 
To think so many should have passed it o'er. 

But oh! that form so beautiful to see 
Soon made its hidden sorrows known to me; 
Thorns lay beneath those flowers and colors fair; 
Sorrowing, I said: "This cross I may not bear." 

And so it was with each and all around, 

Not one to suit my need could there be found; 

Weeping, I laid each heavy burden down, 

As my Guide gently said: "No cross, — no crown.' 

At length, to Him I raised my saddened heart; 
He knew its sorrows, bid its doubts depart. 
"Be not afraid," He said, "but trust in me — 
My perfect love shall now be shown to thee." 

And then with lightened eyes and willing feet, 
Again I turned, my earthly cross to meet, 



TBEASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 73 

With forward footsteps, turning not aside, 
For fear some hidden evil might betide; 

And there — in the prepared, appointed way, 
Listening to hear, and ready to obey — 
A cross I quickly found of plainest form, 
With only words of love inscribed thereon. 

With thankfulness I raised it from the rest, 
And joyfully acknowledged it the best — 
The only one of all the many there 
That I could feel was good for me to bear. 

And, while I thus my chosen one confess'd 
I saw a heavenly brightness on it rest; 
And, as I bent, my burden to sustain, 
I recognized my own old cross again. 

But oh! how different did it seem to be, 
Now I had learned its preciousness to see! 
No longer could I unbelieving say, 
Perhaps another is the better way. 

Ah, no ! henceforth my own desire shall be, 
That He who knows me best should choose for me, 
And so, whate'er His love sees good to send, 
I'll trust it's best, because he knows the end. 



74 TEEASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 



OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 



Oliver Goldsmith was born in 1728 and died 1774. 
He was an Irishman, and his parents were quite poor. 
At the age of seventeen, Oliver went to Trinity College, 
Dublin, as a sizar. In this school he had to pay nothing 
for food and tuition, but he had to perform some menial 
service. He obtained his bachelor's degree, and left the 
university. Goldsmith was not a brilliant and attentive 
student. He became the common butt of boys and master, 
and was flogged as a dunce in school-room. He tried sev- 
eral professions, but all without success. Eighteen months 
were spent in studying medicine at Edinburgh, then some 
time pretending to be studying physic at Leyden. At the 
age of twenty-seven he left school, with a mere smattering 
of medical knowledge, and with no property but his clothes 
and flute. 

Next, Goldsmith commenced his wanderings. He ram- 
bled on foot through Flanders, France, Switzerland, Italy, 
"playing tunes which everywhere set the peasantry dancing." 
His flute frequently gained him meals and bed. Upon his 
return to England, he obtained a medical appointment in 




OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 



TREASURES FEOM THE POETIC WORLD. 75 

the service of the East India Company, but the appointment 
was speedily revoked. At last he took a garret, and at thirty 
commenced to toil like a galley slave. 

''Goldsmith's fame as a poet is secured by the Traveler, 
and the Deserted Village." He wrote the Vicar of Wakefield, 
a novel of much merit. Good-natured Man, She Stoops to 
Conquer, and many other good plays were written by him, 
for the stage. He also wrote for the use of schools, a His- 
tory of Rome, History of England, of Greece, and a Natural 
History. His knowledge, however, was not accurate enough 
to make his histories very valuable. Dr. Johnson says of 
his Natural History : "If he can tell a horse from a cow, 
that is the extent of his knowledge of zoology." But his 
ability to select and condense, enabled him to make histo- 
ries that are models of arrangement and condensation, 
and in this respect they are valuable. 

Although a sloven in his dress and life, yet he has a grace 
and beauty of style that is chaste and musical and fasci- 
nating. Goldsmith is one of the most beloved and brilliant 
of English writers, — full of tenderness and affection. 



76 TEEASUKES FEOM THE POETIC WORLD. 



The Deserted Village. 

WEET Auburn! loveliest village of the plain, 

Where health and plenty cheered the laboring swain 
Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid, 
And parting summer's lingering blooms delayed. 
Dear, lovely bowers of innocence and ease, 
Seats of my youth, when every sport could please, 
How often have I loitered o'er thy, green, 
Where humble happiness endeared each scene! 
How often have I paused on every charm, — 
The sheltered cot, the cultivated farm, 
The never-failing brook, the busy mill, 
The decent church that topped the neighboring hill, 
The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade 
For talking age, and whispering lovers made! 

How often have I blessed the coming day, 
When toil remitting lent its aid to play, 
And all the village train, from labor free, 
Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree, 
While many a pastime circled in the shade, — 
The young contending, as the old surveyed; 
And many a gambol frolicked o'er the ground, 
And sleights of art and feats of strength went round. 

Sweet, smiling village, loveliest of the lawn; 
Thy sports are fled, and all thy charms withdrawn ; 
Amid thy bowers the tyrant's hand is seen, 



TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 77 

And desolation saddens all thy green. 

No more thy glassy brook reflects the day, 

But, choked with sedges, works its weedy way; 

Along thy glades, a solitary guest, 

The hollow- sounding bittern guards its nest. 

El fares the land, to hastening ills a prey, 
"Where wealth accumulates, and men decay; 
Princes and lords may nourish, or may fade; 
A breath can make them, as a breath has made; 
But a bold peasantry, their country's pride, 
When once destroyed, can never be supplied. 

Sweet Auburn! parent of the blissful hour, 
Thy glades forlorn confess the tyrant's power. 
Here, as I take my solitary rounds, 
Amid thy tangling walks and ruined grounds, 
And, many a year elapsed, return to view 
Where once the cottage stood, the hawthorn grew, 
Bemembrance wakes with all her busy train, 
Swells at my breast, and turns the past to pain. 

In all my wanderings round this world of care, 
In all my griefs, — and God has given my share,— 
I still had hopes, my latest hours to crown, 
Amid these humble bowers to lay rne down; 
To husband out life's taper at the close, 
And keep the flame from wasting by repose: 
I still had hopes, my long vexations past, 
Here to return, — and die at home at last. 

blest retirement! friend to life's decline, 
Betreat from care, that never must be mine. 
How blessed is he who crowns, in shades like these, 



78 TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 

A youth of labor with an age of ease; 
Who quits a world where strong temptations try, 
And, since 'tis hard to combat, learns to fly! 
So on he moves to meet his latter end, 
Angels around befriending virtue's friend; 
Sinks to the grave with unperceived decay; 
While resignation gently slopes the way; 
And, all his prospects brightening to the last, 
His heaven commences ere the world be past. 



The Village Preacher. 

jjEAE yonder copse, where once the garden smiled, 
AJW And still where many a garden-flower grows wild, 
There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose, 
The .village preacher's modest mansion rose. 
A man he was to all the country dear, 
And passing rich with forty pounds a year; 
Eemote from towns he ran his godly race, 
Nor e'er had changed, nor wished to change his place; 
Unskilful he to fawn, or seek for power 
By doctrines fashioned to the varying hour; 

Far other aims his heart had learned to prize, 
More bent to raise the wretched than to rise. 
His house was known to all the vagrant train; 



TEEASUEES FEOM THE POETIC WOELD. 79 

He chid their wanderings, but relieved their pain; 

The long-remembered beggar was his guest, 

"Whose beard descending swept his aged breast; 

The ruined spendthrift, now no longer proud, 

Claimed kindred there, and had his claims allowed. 

The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay, 

Sat by the fire, and talked the night away; 

"Wept o'er his wounds, or, tales of sorrow done, 

Shouldered his crutch, and showed how fields were won. 

Pleased with his guests, the good man learned to glow, 

And quite forgot their vices in their woe; 

Careless their merits or their faults to scan, 

His pity gave e'er charity began. 

Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride, 
And e'en his failings leaned to virtue's side; 
But, in his duty prompt at every call, 
He watched and wept, he prayed and felt for all; 
And as a bird, each fond endearment tries 
To tempt its new-fledged offspring to the skies, 
He tried each art, reproved each dull delay, 
Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way. 
Beside the bed where parting life was laid, 
And sorrow, guilt, and pain, by turns dismayed, 
The reverend champion stood. At his control, 
Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul; 
Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise, 
And his last, faltering accents whispered praise. 

At church, with meek and unaffected grace, 
His looks adorned the venerable place; 



80 TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 

Truth from his lips prevailed with double sway, 

And fools, who came to scoff, remained to pray. 

The service past, around the pious man, 

With ready zeal, each honest rustic ran; 

E'en children followed with endearing wile, 

And plucked his gown, to share the good man's smile; 

His ready smile a parent's warmth expressed; 

Their welfare pleased him, and their cares distressed; 

To them his heart, his love, his griefs were given, 

But all his serious thoughts had rest in heaven. 

As some tall cliff that lifts its awful form, 

Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm, 

Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread, 

Eternal sunshine settles on its head. 



A Lost Day. 

KOST! lost! lost! 
A gem of countless price 
Cut from the living rock, 

And graved in Paradise. 
Set round with three times eight 

Large diamonds, clear and bright, 
And each with sixty smaller ones, 
All changeful as the light. 



TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 81 

Lost — where the thoughtless throng 

In fashion's mazes wind, 
Where trilleth folly's song, 

Leaving a sting behind; 
Yet to my hand 'twas given 

A golden harp to buy, 
Such as the white -robed choir attune 

To deathless minstrelsy. 

Lost! losti lost! 

I feel all search is vain; 
That gem of countless cost 

Can ne'er be mine again. 
I offer no reward, 

For till these heart-strings sever, 
I know that heaven-intrusted gift 

Is reft away forever. 

But when the sea and land 

Like burning scroll have fled, 
I'll see it in his hand 

Who judgeth quick and dead; 
And when of softth and loss 

That man can ne'er repair, 
The dread inquiry meets my soul, 

What shall it answer there? 



82 



TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 



The Two Anchors. 

IT was a gallant sailor man 
Had just come home from sea, 

And as I passed him in town 
He sang, "Ahoy!" to me. 

I stopped, and saw I knew the man- 
Had known him from a boy; 

And so I answered, sailor-like, 
"Avast!" to his "Ahoy!" 

I made a song for him one day — 
His ship was then in sight — 

"The little anchor on the left, 
The great one on the right." 



I gave his hand a hearty grip, 

"So you are back again? 
They say you have been pirating 

Upon the Spanish Main; 
Or was it some rich Indiaman 

You robbed of all her pearls? 
Of course you have been breaking hearts 

Of poor Kanaka girls!" 
"Wherever I have been," he said, 

"I kept my ship in sight — 
'The little anchor on the left, 

The great one on the right.' " 



TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 83 

"I heard last night that you were in; 

I walked the wharves to-day, 
But saw no ship that looked like yours. 

Where does the good ship lay? 
I want to go on board of her." 

"And so you shall," said he, 
"But there are many things to do 

When one comes home from sea; 
You know the song you made for me? 

I sing it morn and night — 
'The little anchor on the left, 

The great one on the right!' " 

"But how's your wife and little one?" 

"Come home with me," he said, 
"Go on, go on; I follow you." 

I followed where he led, 
He had a pleasant little house; 

The door was open wide, 
And at the door the dearest face- 

A dearer one inside! 
He hugged his wife and child; he sang — 

His spirits were so light — 
"The little anchor to the left, 

The great one to the right." 

'Twas supper-time, and we sat down — 

The sailor's wife and child, 
And he and I; he looked at them, 

And looked at me and smiled, 



8-4 TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 

"I think of this when I am tossed 

Upon the stormy foam, 
And though a thousand leagues away 

Am anchored here at home." 
Then, giving each a kiss, he said, 

"I see in dreams at night 
This little anchor on the left, 

This great one on my right." 



Selling the Farm. 

ELL, why don't you say it, husband? I know what you 

want to say; 
You want to talk about selling the farm, for the mortgage we 

can not pay. 
I know that we can not pay it, I have thought of it o'er and o'er; 
For the wheat has failed on the corner lot, where wheat never 

failed before. 
And everything here's gone backward since Willie went off to 

sea, 
To pay the mortgage and save the farm, the homestead, for you 

and me. 
I know it was best to give it; it was right that the debts be 

paid, 
The debts that our thoughtless Willie, in the hours of his weak- 
ness, made; 



TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 85 

And Will would have paid it fairly, you know it as well as I, 
If the ship had not gone down that night when no other ship 

was nigh. 
But, somehow, I didn't quit hoping, and ever I've tried to pray — 
(But I know if our Will was alive on earth, he'd surely be here 

to-day) 
I thought that the merciful Father would, somehow, care for the 

lad, 
Because he was trying to better the past, and because he was 

all we had, 
But now I am well nigh hopeless, since hope for my boy has 

fled, 
For selling the farm means giving him up, and knowing for sure 

he's dead. 
Oh! Thomas, how can we leave it, the home we have always 

known ? 
We won it away from the forest, and made it so much our own. 
First day that we kept house together was the day that you 

brought me here; 
And no other place in the wide, wide world will ever be half so 

dear. 
Of course, you remember it, Thomas — I need not ask you, I know, 
For this is the month, and this is the day — it was twenty-six 



And don't you remember it, Thomas, the Winter the barn was 

made? 
How we were so proud and happy, for all our debts were paid — 
The crops were good that Summer, and everything worked like 

a charm, 



86 TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 

And we felt so rich and contented to think we had paid for the 

farm. 
And now to think we must leave it, when here I was hoping to 

die, 
It seems as if it was breaking my heart, but the fount of my 

tears is dry. 
There's a man up there in the village that's wanting to buy, you 

say. 
Well, Thomas, he'll have to have it; but why does he come to- 
day? 
But, there — it is wrong to grieve you, for you have enough to 

bear, 
And in all of our petty troubles you have always borne your 

share. 
I am but a sorry helpmeet since I have so childish grown. 
There, there — go on to the village, let me have it out alone. 
Poor Thomas, he's growing feeble, he steps so weary and slow, 
There is not much in his looks to-day like twenty-six years ago. 
But I know that his heart is youthful as it was when we first 

were wed, 
And his love is as strong as ever for me, and for Willie, our boy 

that is dead. 
Oh, Willie, my baby Willie, I never shall see him more; 
I never shall hear his footsteps, as he comes through the open 

door. 
"How are you, dear little mother?" were always the words he'd 

say; 
It seems as if I would give the world to hear it again to-day. 
I knew when my boy was coming, be it ever so early or late, 



TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 87 

He was always a whistling "Home, Sweet Home," as he opened 

the garden gate. 
And many and many a moment, since the night that the ship 

went down, 
Have I started up at a whistle like his, out there on the road 

from town: 
And in many a night of sorrow, in the silence, early and late, 
Have I held my breath at a footstep, that seemed to pause at 

the gate. 
I hope that he cannot see us, wherever his soul may be; 
It would grieve him to know the trouble that's come to father 

and me. 
Out there is the tree he planted the day he was twelve years 

old; 
The sunlight is glinting through it, and turning its leaves to 

gold; 
And often when I was lonely, and no one near at hand, 
I have talked to it, hours together — as if it could understand — 
And sometimes I used to fancy, whenever I spoke of my boy, 
It was waving its leaves together, like clapping its hands for joy. 
It may be that the man who will own it, that's coming to buy 

it to-day, 
Will be chopping it down, or digging it up, and burning it of 

the way. 
And there are the pansies yonder, and the roses he helped to 

tend — 
Why, every bush on the dear old place is as dear as a tried old 

friend. 
And now we must go and leave them — but there! they have 

come from town; 






88 TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 

I haven't had time to smooth my hair, or even to change my 

gown ; 
I can see them hoth quite plainly, although it is getting late. 
And the stranger's a whistling "Home, Sweet Home," as he 

comes up from the gate. 
I'll go out into the kitchen, now, for I don't want to look on 

his face. 
What right has he to be whistling that, unless he has bought 

the place? 

Why, can that be Thomas coming? he usually steps so slow; 
There's something come into his footstep like twenty- six years 

. ago. 
There's something that sounds like gladness, and the man that 

he used to be 
Before our Willie went out from home to die on the stormy 

sea. 
What, Thomas! Why are you smiling, and holding my hands 

so tight? 
And why don't you tell me quickly — must we go from the farm 

to-night? 
What's that? "You bring me tidings, and tidings of wonderful 

joy?" 

It cannot be very joyous, unless it is news from my boy. 

Oh, Thomas! You cannot mean it? Here, let me look in your 

face, — 
Now, tell me again it is Willie that's wanting to buy the 

place. 



TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 



t 



Somebody's Mother, 

HE woman was old and ragged and gray, 
And bent with the chill of the winter's day. 



The street was wet with the recent snow, 
And the woman's feet were aged and slow. 

She stood at the crossing and waited long, 
Alone, uncared for, amid the throng 

Of human beings who passed her by, 
Nor heeded the glance of her anxious eye. 

Down the street with laughter and shout, 
Glad in the freedom of "school let out," 

Came the boys like a flock of sheep, 
Hailing the snow piled white and deep. 

Past the woman so old and gray 
Hastened the children on their way, 

Nor offered a helping hand to her, 
So meek, so timid, afraid to stir, 

Lest the carriage wheels or the horses' feet 
Should crowd her down in the slippery street. 

At last came one of the merry troop — 
The gayest laddie of all the group; 



90 TEEASUEES FEOM THE POETIC WOELD. 

He paused beside her and whispered low, 
"I'll help you across if you wish to go." 

Her aged hand on his strong young arm 
She placed, and so without hurt or harm, 

He guides her trembling feet along, 
Proud that his own were firm and strong. 

Then back again to his friends he went, 
His young heart happy and well content. 

"She's somebody's mother, boys, you know, 
For all she's aged and poor and slow; 

And I hope some fellow will lend a hand 
To help my mother, you understand, 

If ever she's poor and old and gray, 
When her own dear boy is far away." 

And "somebody's mother" bowed low her head 
In her home that night, and the prayer she said 

Was, "God be kind to the noble boy, 

Who is somebody's son and pride and joy!" 



TREASURES FEOM THE POETIC WORLD. 91 



Driving Home the Cows. 

UT of the clover and blue-eyed grass 
He turned them into the river lane; 
One after another he let them pass, 
Then fastened the meadow bars again. 

Under the willow and over the hill, 
He patiently followed their sober pace; 

The merry whistle for once was still, 
And something shadowed the sunny face. 

Only a boy! and his father had said 
He never could let his youngest go, 

Two already were lying dead, 

Under the feet of the trampling foe. 

But, after the evening's work was done, 

And the frogs were loud in the meadow swamp, 

Over his shoulder he slung his gun, 

And stealthily followed the foot-path damp. 

Across the clover and through the wheat, 
With resolute heart and purpose grim, 

Though cold was the dew on his hurrying feet, 
And blinding bats flitting startled him. 

Thrice since then had the lanes been white, 
And the orchards sweet with apple-bloom; 



92 TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 

And now, when the cows came back at night, 
The feeble father drove thern home. 

For news had come to the lonely farm 

That three were lying where two had lain; 

And the old man's tremulous, palsied arm 
Could never lean on a son's again. 

The summer day grew cold and late, 
He went for the cows when the work was done; 

But down the lane, as he opened the gate, 
He saw them coming, one by one. 

Brindle, Ebony, Speckle, and Bess, 

Shaking their horns in the evening wind 
Cropping the buttercups out of the grass — 
^But who was it following close behind? 

Loosely swung in the idle air 

The empty sleeve of army-blue, 
And worn and pale, from the crisping hair, 

Looked out a face that the father knew. 

For Southern prisons will sometimes yawn, 

And yield their dead to life again: 
And the day that comes with a cloudy dawn 

In golden glory at last may wane. 

The great tears sprang to their meeting eyes — 

For the heart must speak when the lips are dumb — 

And under the silent evening skies 

Together they followed the cattle home. 



TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 93 



Patience. 



ERE there no night we could not read the stars, 



iqb: 

Vt# The heavens would turn into a blinding glare; 
Freedom is best seen through the prison-bars, 
And rough seas make the haven passing fair. 

We can not measure joys but by their loss, 
When blessings fade away we see them then 

Our richest clusters grow around the cross, 
And in the night-time angels sing to men. 

The seed must first he buried deep in earth, 

Before the lily opens to the sky; 
So "light is sown," and gladness has its birth 

In the dark deeps where we can only cry. 

"Life out of death" is Heaven's unwritten law, 

Nay, it is written in a myriad forms; 
The victor's palm grows on the fields of war, 

And strength and beauty are the fruit of storms. 

Come, then, my soul, be brave to do and bear; 

Thy lif e is bruised that it may be more sweet ; 
The cross will soon be left, the crown we'll wear — 

Nay, we will cast it at our Savior's feet. 

And up among the glories never told, 
Sweeter than music of the marriage-bell, 



94 TKEASUEES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 

Our hands will strike the vibrant harp of gold 
To the glad song, "He doeth all things well." 






"Rook of Ages." 

Seldom have we read a sweeter illustration of the thoughtless and 
experimental way of singing this precious hymn than that which is em- 
bodied in the following anonymous verse: 

tj2 0CE: of A s es > cleft for me >" 

A w Thoughtlessly the maiden sung, 
Fell the words unconsciously, 

From her girlish, gleeful tongue, 
Sang as little children sing; 

Sang as sing the birds in June; 
Fell the words like light leaves down 

On the current of the tune — 
"Bock of Ages, cleft for me, 
Let me hide myself in Thee." 

"Let me hide myself in Thee," 

Felt her soul no need to hide; 
Sweet the song as song could be — 

And she had no thought beside; 
All the words unheedingly 

Fell from lips untouched by care, 
Dreaming not they each might be 

On some other lips a prayer — 



TREASURES , FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 95 

"Rock of Ages, cleft for me, 
Let me hide myself in Thee." 

"Rock of Ages, cleft for me"— 

'Twas a woman sang them now, 
Rose the song as storm-tossed bird 

Beats with weary wing the air, 
Every note with sorrow stirred — 

Every syllable a prayer — 
"Rock of Ages, cleft for me, 
Let me hide myself in Thee." 

"Rock of Ages, cleft for me" — 

Lips grown aged sung the hymn 
Trustingly and tenderly — 

Voice grown weak and eyes grown dim. 
"Let me hide myself in Thee." 

Trembling though the voice and low, 
Ran the sweet strain peacefully, 

Like a river in its flow, 
Sung as only they can sing 

Who life's thorny paths have pressed; 
Sung as only they can sing 

Who behold the promised rest — 
"Rock of Ages, cleft for me, 
Let me hide myself in Thee." 

"Rock of Ages, cleft for me." 

Sang above a coffin lid; 
Underneath, all restfully, 

All life's joys and sorrows hid. 



96 TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 

Nevermore, storm-tossed soul! 

Nevermore from wind or tide, 
Nevermore from billows' roll, 

Wilt thou need to hide. 
Could the sightless, sunken eyes, 

Closed beneath the soft gray hair, 
Could the mute and stiffened lips 

Move again in pleading prayer, 
Still, aye, still the words would be 
"Let me hide myself in Thee." 



"Waiting for Mother." 

tHE old man sits in his easy chair 
Slumbering the moments away, 
Dreaming a dream that is all his own 

On this gladsome, peaceful day. 
His children have gathered from far and near, 

His children's children beside — 
And merry voices are echoing through 
The "Homestead's halls" so wide. 

But far away in the years long flown, 

Grandfather lives again; 
And his heart forgets that it ever knew 

A shadow of grief and pain; 



TBEASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 97 

For he sees his wife as he saw her then — 

A matron comely and fair, 
With her children gathered around his hoard 

And never a vacant chair. 

Oh! happy this dream of the "Auld Lang Syne," 

Of the years long slipped away! 
And the old man's lips have gathered a smile 

And his heart grows young and gay. 
But a kiss falls gently upon his hrow, 

From his daughter's lips so true; 
"Dinner is ready; and, father, dear, 

We are only waiting for you!" 

The old man wakes at his daughter's call, 

And he looks at the table near — 
"There's one of us missing, my child," he says, 

"We will wait till mother is here." 
There are tears in the eyes of his children, then, 

As they gaze on an empty chair; 
For many a lonely year has passed 

Since "mother" sat with them there. 

But the old man pleads still wistfully; 

"We must wait for mother, you know!" 
And they let him rest in his old arm-chair 

Till the sun at last sinks low. 
Then, leaving a smile for the children here, 

He turns from the earth away, 
And has gone to "mother," beyond the skies, 

With the close of the quiet day. 



98 TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 



WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 



William Wordsworth was born April 7, 1770, and 
on the 23d of April, 1850, "he closed a life so pure, 
serene, and priest-like in its consecration to lofty pur- 
pose, that we must go back to Milton in order to 
find its parallel. " 

He was a graduate of Cambridge University. In 
1839, Oxford University recognized his ability by con- 
ferring upon him the degree of D. C. L. In 1843, he 
was made poet-laureate of England. 

Wordsworth studied Shakespeare, Milton, Spenser 
and Chaucer, as models. He was the founder of the 
"Lake School" of poets, composed of Wordsworth, Cole- 
ridge and Southey. As a writer, he first came to 
public notice in two poems, An .Evening Walk, and 
Descriptive Sketches Taken During a Pedestrian Tour 
among the Alps. The simplicity, refinement, and ori- 
ginality shown in these poems attracted general atten- 
tion. The Excursion is, without doubt, Wordsworth's 
finest and most important production. 

Most of the poet's life was devoted to a special 
study of poetry. Two legacies bequeathed him, gave 
means of support. His desire was to secure simpli- 



TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 99 

city of language. The first efforts were so extremely 
simple that they were considered simple by all. This 
apparent silliness was ridiculed and laughed at by 
Jeffrey. 

He is now loved and admired by all the world. 
His poetry is completely emancipated from the arti- 
ficial. As Coleridge says, "He is austerely accurate in 
the use of words." By common consent, we place 
Wordsworth on the list of great poets, next to Milton, 
where his "all-embracing humanity" will forever shine. 



Frcm "The Excursion." 



r£r> 



HE mountain-ash, 
A Decked with autumnal berries that outshine 
Spring's richest blossoms, yields a splendid show, 
Amid the leafy woods; and ye have seen, 
By a brook- side or solitary turn, 
How she her station doth adorn; the pool 
Glows at her feet, and all the gloomy rocks 
Are brightened round her. In his native vale 
Such and so glorious did this youth appear; 
A sight that kindled pleasure in all hearts 
By his ingenuous beauty, by the gleam 
Of his fair eyes, by his capacious brow,' 



100 TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 

By all the graces with which Nature's hand 

Had bounteously arrayed him. As old bards 

Tell in their idle songs of wandering gods, 

Pan or Apollo, veiled in human form: 

Yet, like the sweet-breath'd violet of the shade 

Discovered in their own despite to sense 

Of mortals (if such fables without blame 

May find chance-mentioned on this sacred ground) 

So, through a simple rustic garb's disguise, 

And through the impediment of rural cares, 

In him revealed a scholar's genius shown; 

And so, not wholly hidden from men's sight, 

In him the spirit of a hero walked 

Our unpretending valley — How the quoit 

"Whizzed from the stripling's arm! If touched by him, 

The inglorious foot-ball mounted to the pitch 

Of the lark's flight, — or shaped a rainbow curve, 

Aloft, in prospect of the shouting field! 

The indefatigable fox had learned 

To dread his perseverance in the chase. 

With admiration he could lift his eyes 

To the wide-ruling eagle, and his hand 

Was loath to assault the majesty he loved, 

Else had the strongest fastnesses proved weak 

To guard the royal brood. The sailing glead, 

The wheeling swallow, and the darting snipe, 

The sportive sea-gull dancing with the waves, 

And cautious waterfowl, from distant climes, 

Fixed at their seat, the centre of the Mere, 

Were subject to young Oswald's steady aim. 



TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 101 



From "An Evening Walk." 

lb 

i , r AR from my dearest friend, 'tis mine to rove 
F Through bare grey dell, high wood, and pastoral cove, 
His wizard course where hoary Derwent takes, 
Thro' crags and forest glooms and opening lakes, 
Staying his silent waves, to hear the roar 
That stuns the tremulous cliffs of high Lodore, 
"Where peace to Gras mere's lonely island leads 
To willowy hedgerows, and to emerald meads; 
Leads to her bridge, rude church, and cottaged grounds, 
Her rocky sheepwalks, and her woodland bounds; 
"Where, bosom'd deep, the shy "Winander peeps 
'Mid clustering isles, and holy- sprinkled steeps; 
"Where twilight glens endear my Esthwaite's shore. 
And memory of departed pleasures, more. 

Fair scenes! erewhile I taught, a happy child, 
The echoes of your rocks my carols wild; 
Then did no ebb of cheerfulness demand 
Sad tides of joy from Melancholy's hand; 
In youth's wild eye the livelong day was bright, 
The sun at morning, and the stars at night, 
Alike, when first the valves the bittern fills 
Or the first woodcocks roamed the moonlight hills. 

In thoughtless gayety I coursed the plain, 
And hope itself was all I knew of pain ; 
For then, even then, the little heart would beat 



102 TREASURES FRCM THE POETIC WORLD. 

At times, while young Content forsook her seat, 

And wild Impatience, pointing upward, showed, 

Where, tipp'd with gold, the mountain summits glowed. 

Alas! the idle tale of man is found 

Depicted in the dial's moral round; 

With hope Eeflection blends her social rays 

To gild the total tablet of his days; 

Yet still the sport of some malignant power, 

He knows but from its shade the present hour. 



The Common Lot. 

/%\NCE, in the flight of ages past, 
^/ There lived a man; — and who was he? 
Mortal, howe'er thy lot be cast, 
That man resembled thee. 

Unknown the region of his birth; 

The land in which he died unknown: 
His name has perished from the earth; 

This truth survives alone: — 

That joy and grief, and hope and fear, 
Alternate, triumphed in his breast; 

His bliss and woe, — a smile, a tear, — 
Oblivion hides the rest. 



TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. jQg 

The bounding pulse, the languid limb, 

The changing spirit's rise and fall, — 
We know that these were felt by him, 

For these are felt by all. 

He suffered — but his pangs are oer; 

Enjoyed, — but his delights are fled; 
Had friends, — his friends are now no more; 

And foes, — his foes are dead. 

He loved, — but whom he loved, the grave 

Hath lost in its unconscious womb; 
Oh, she was fair! but nought could save 

Her beauty from the tomb. 

He saw whatever thou hast seen, 

Encountered all that troubles thee; 
He was whatever thou hast been; 

He is what thou shalt be. 

The rolling seasons, day and night, 

Sun, moon, and stars, the earth and main, 

Ere while his portion, life and light, 
To him exist in vain. 

The clouds and sunbeams, o'er his eye 
That once their shades and glory threw, 

Have left in yonder silent sky 
No vestige where they flew. 

The annals of the human race, 

Their ruin since the world began, 
Of him afford no other trace 

Than this, — There lived a man. 



104 



TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 



The Old Folks' Room. 

tHE old man sat by the chimney side; 
His face was wrinkled and wan; 
And he leaned both hands on his stout oak cane, 
As if all work were done. 

His coat was of good old-fashioned gray; 

The pockets were deep and wide, 
Where his "specs" and his steel tobacco box 

Lay snugly side by side. 

The old man liked to stir the fire, 

So near him the tongs were kept; 
Sometimes he mused as he gazed at the coals, 

Sometimes he sat and wept. 

What saw he in the embers there? 

Ah! pictures of other years; 
And now and then they wakened smiles, 

But oftener started tears. 

His good wife sat on the other side, 

In a high-back, flag-seat chair; 
I see 'neath the pile of her muslin cap 

The sheen of her silvery hair. 

There's a happy look on her aged face, 
As she busily knits for him, 



TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 105 

And Nellie takes up the stitches dropped, 
For Grandmother's eyes are dim. 

Their children come and read the news, 

To pass the time, each day; 
How it stirs the blood in an old man's heart 

To hear of the world away! 

'Tis a homely scene, — I told you so, — 

But pleasant it is to view; 
At least I thought it so myself, 

And sketched it down for you. 

Be kind unto the old, my friend; 

They're worn with this world's strife, 
Though bravely, once, perchance, they fought 

The stern, fierce battle of life. 

They taught our youthful feet to climb 

Upward life's rugged steep; 
Then let us lead them gently down 

To where the weary sleep. 



106 TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 



The Last Hour. 

I HE long day dies with sunset down the west; 

^ Comes the young moon through violet fields of air; 

A fragrance finer than the south winds hear 
Breathes from the sea — the time is come for rest. 

I wait. Birds nestward fly through deepening hlue. 

heart! Take comfort, peace will find thee too. 
For lo! between the lights, when shadows wane, 

Heart calls to heart across the widening breach 

Of hitter thought, chill touch, and jarring speech 
And Love cries out to take his own again. 

Give me the kiss of peace. 

Hold not your anger after the spent sun. 

Lo! I have wrought with sorrow all the day, 
With tear-wet cypress, and with hitter hay 

Bound all my doors. No thread of song has run 
Beside my thought to lighten it for me. 

Bise up, and with forgiveness set me free. 

For who may boast a gift of lengthened breath? 
And, lest you watch to-morrow's sun arise 

Across my face, new-touched with sudden death 
And the mute pathos of unanswering eyes, 
Turn not aside my hand outstretched, or smite 
The yearning heart. Let Love's repentance found 

Have Love's reward. All life is mixed with Fate. 



TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 107 

And, beloved! Death's angel will not wait 
For summoned feet to haste on anxious round 
With quick "Forgive, forgive, we pass to-night!" 

All day Eegret has walked and talked with me, 

And, lest to-morrow it should go with thee, 
Give me the kiss of peace. 



Good and Better. 

/j FATHEE sat by the chimney-post, 
V I ^ On a winter's day, enjoying a roast. 
By his side a maiden young and fair, 
A girl with a wealth of golden hair; 
And she teases the father, stern and cold, 
"With a question of duty trite and old; 
"Say, father, what shall a maiden do 
When a man of merit comes to woo? 
And, father, what . of this pain in my breast? 
Married or single — which is the best?" 

Then the sire of the maiden young and fair, 
The girl of the wealth of golden hair, 
He answers as ever do fathers cold, 
To the question of duty trite and old: 
"She who weddeth keeps God's letter; 
She who weds not, doeth better." 



108 TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 

Then meekly answered the maiden fair, 
The girl with the wealth of golden hair, 
"I will keep the sense of the Holy Letter, 
Content to do well, without doing better. 



The Raven. 

/| lNCE upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and 
VL ' weary, 

Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore, 
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, 
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door. 
" 'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door; 
Only this, and nothing more." 

Ah, distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak December, 

And each separate, dying ember wrought its ghost upon the 
floor. 
Eagerly I wished the morrow; vainly I had sought to borrow 
From my books surcease of sorrow, sorrow for the lost Le- 
nore, 
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels named Le- 
nore, 

Nameless here forevermore. 

And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain 
Thrilled me, filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before; 



TKEASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 109 

So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating, 
" 'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door, 
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door: 
This it is, and nothing more." 

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer, 

"Sir," said I, "or madam, truly your forgiveness I implore; 
But the fact is, I was napping, and so gently you came rap- 
ping, 
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door, 
That I scarce was sure I heard you." Here I opened wide the 
door; — 

Darkness there, and nothing more. 

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, 

fearing, 
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream 

before ; 
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token, 
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, 

"Lenore;" 
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word 

"Lenore." 

Merely this, and nothing more. 

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning, 
Soon again I heard a tapping, something louder than before. 
"Surely," said I, "surely, that is something at my window lat- 
tice; 
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore; 
Let my heart be still a moment, and this mystery explore; 
'Tis the wind, and nothing more." 



110 



TREASURES FKOM THE POETIC WORLD. 



Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and 
flutter, 
In there stepped a stately raven, of the saintly days of yore. 
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or staid 

he; 
But with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door, 
Perched upon a bust of Pallas, just above my chamber door; 
Perched, and sat, and nothing more. 

Then this ebon bird beguiling my sad fancy into smihng, 

By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore, 
"Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure 

no craven, 
Ghastly, grim, and ancient raven, wandering from the Nightly 

shore. 
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian 
shore. " 

Quoth the raven, "Nevermore." 

Much I marveled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly, 

Though its answer little meaning, little relevancy bore; 
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being 
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door, 
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber 

door, 

With such name as "Evermore." 



But the raven, sitting lonely on that placid bust, spoke only 
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did out- 
pour. 
Nothing 'further then he uttered; not a feather then he fluttered; 



TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. m 

Till I scarcely more than muttered, "Other friends have flown 

before ; 
On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown 

before. " 

Then the bird said "Nevermore." 

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken, 

"Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and 
store, 
Caught from some unhappy master, whom unmerciful disaster 
Followed fast and followed faster, till his songs one burden 

bore, 
Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore, 
Of " Never — nevermore . ' ' 

But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling, 

Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust 
and door; 
Then upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking 

Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore, 
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous bir! 
of yore 

Meant in croaking, "Nevermore." 

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing 
To the fowl, whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's 
core; 
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining 
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamplight gloated o'er, 
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamplight gloating 
o'er, 

She shall press, ah, nevermore. 



112 TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD, 

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an tin- 
seen censer 
Swung by Seraphim whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted 
floor. 
"Wretch," I cried, "thy Grod hath lent thee, by these angels he 
hath sent thee 
Eespite — respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore! 
Quaff, quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost 
Lenore!" 

Quoth the raven "Nevermore." 

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil! — prophet still, if bird or 
devil! 
Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here 
ashore, 
Desolate, yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted, — 
On this home by Horror haunted — tell me truly, I implore — 
Is there — is there balm in Grilead? — tell me — tell me, I im- 
plore!" 

Quoth the raven, "Nevermore." 

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil — prophet still, if bird or devil! 

By that heaven that bends above us — by that God we both 

adore — 

Tell this soul with sorrow laden, if within the distant Aiden, 

It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name 

Lenore — 
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels name 

Lenore?" 

Quoth the raven, "Nevermore." 



TREASUEES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 113 

"Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!" I shrieked, 
upstarting — 
"Get thee back into the tempest and the night's Plutonian 
shore ! 
Leave no black plume as a token of that He thy soul hath 
spoken ! 
Leave my loneliness unbroken! — quit the bust above my 

door! 
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from 
off my door!" 

Quoth the raven, "Nevermore." 

And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting 

On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door; 
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dream- 
ing; 
And the lamplight o'er him streaming throws his shadow on 

the floor; 
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the 
floor, 

Shall be lifted — nevermore! 




114 TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 



Little Meg and I. 

|wOU asked me, mates, to spin a yarn, before we go below; 
^ Well, as trie night is calm and fair, and no chance for a 

blow, 
I'll give you one, — a story true as ever yet was told — 
For, mates, I wouldn't lie about the dead; no, not for gold. 
The story's of a maid and lad, who loved in days gone by: 
The maiden was Meg Anderson, the lad, messmates, was I. 

A neater, trimmer craft than Meg was very hard to find; 
"Why, she could climb a hill and make five knots agin the 

wind; 
And as for larnin,' hulks and spars! I've often heard it said 
That she could give the scholars points and then come out 

ahead. 
The old schoolmaster used to say, and mates, it made me cry, 
That the smartest there was little Meg; the greatest dunce was I. 

But what cared I for larnin' then, while she was by my side; 

For, though a lad, I loved her, mates, and for her would have 
died; 

And she loved me, the little lass, and often have I smiled 

"When she said, "I'll be your little wife," 'twas the prattle oi a 
child. 

For there lay a gulf between us, mates, with the waters run- 
ning high; 

On one side stood Meg Anderson, on the other side stood I. 



TEEASUEES EEOM THE POETIC WOELD. H5 

Meg's fortune was twelve ships at sea and houses on the land; 
While mine — why, mates, you might have held my fortune in 

your hand. 
Her father owned a vast domain for miles along the shore; 
My father owned a fishing-smack, a hut, and nothing more; 
I knew that Meg I ne'er could win, no matter how I'd try, 
For on a couch of down lay she, on a bed of straw lay I. 

I never thought of leaving Meg, or Meg of leaving me, 

For we were young and never dreamed that I should go to sea. 

Till one bright morning father said: "There's a whale-ship in 

the bay: 
I want you Bill, to make a cruise — you go aboard to-day." 
Well, mates, in two weeks from that time I bade them all good- 
bye. 
While on the dock stood little Meg, and on the deck stood I. 

I saw her oft before we sailed, whene'er I came on shore. 
And she would say: "Bill, when you're gone, I'll love you more 

and more; 
And I promise to be true to you through all the coming years." 
But while she spoke her bright blue eyes were filled with pearly 

tears. 
Then, as I whispered words of hope and kissed her eyelids dry, 
Her last words were: "God speed you, Bill!" so parted Meg 

and I. 

Well, mates, we cruised for four long years, till at last one 

summer's day 
Our good ship, the Minerva, cast anchor in the bay, 



116 TEEASUEES FKOM THE POETIC WOELD. 

Oh, how my heart beat high with hope, as I saw her home once 

more, 
And on the pier stood hundreds, to welcome us ashore; 
But my heart sank down within me as I gazed with anxious 

eye- 
No little Meg stood on the dock, as on the deck stood I. 

Why, mates, it nearly broke my heart when I went ashore that 

day, 
For they told me little Meg had wed, while I was far away. 
They told me, too, they forced her to't — and wrecked her fair 

young life — 
Just think, messmates, a child in years, to be an old man's 

wife. 
But her father said it must be so, and what could she reply? 
For she was only just sixteen — just twenty-one was I. 

Well, mates, a few short years from then — perhaps it might be 

four — 
One blustering night Jack Glinn and I were rowing to the 

shore, 
When right ahead we saw a sight that made us hold our 

breath — 
There floating in the pale moonlight was a woman cold in death. 
I raised her up: oh, God, messmates, that I had passed her by! 
For in the bay lay little Meg and oyer her stood I. 



■£ 



TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. Uf 



The Model Church. 

ELL, wife, I've found the model church! I worshiped 
there to-day; 

It made me think of good old times, before my hairs were gray. 
The meetin' -house was finer built than they were years ago; 
But then I found, when I went in, it wasn't built for show. 

The sexton didn't seat me 'way back by the door; 
He knew that I was old and deaf, as well as old and poor. 
He must have been a Christian, for he led me boldly through 
The long aisle of that pleasant church to find a pleasant pew. 

I wish you'd heard the singin' — it had the old-time ring— 

The preacher said with trumpet- voice, "Let all the people sing"; 

The tune was "Coronation," and the music upwards rolled 

Till I thought I heard the angels striking all their harps of gold. 

My deafness seemed to melt away, my spirit caught the fire, 
I joined my feeble, trembling voice with that melodious choir, 
And sang, as in my youthful days, "Let angels prostrate fall, 
Bring forth the royal diadem and crown him Lord of all." 

I tell you, wife, it did me good to sing that hymn once more, 
I felt like some wrecked mariner who gets a glimpse of shore; 
I almost want to lay aside this weather-beaten form 
And anchor in the blessed port forever from the storm. 



118 TEEASUEES FEOM THE POETIC WOELD. 

The preachin'! well, I can't just tell all that the preacher said; 

I know it wasn't written, I know it wasn't read ; 

He hadn't time to read, for the lightnin' of his eye 

Went passing 'long from pew to pew, nor passed a sinner by. 

The sermon wasn't flowery, 'twas simple Gospel truth, 
It fitted poor old men like me, it fitted hopeful youth. 
'Twas full of consolation for weary hearts that bleed, 
'Twas full of invitations to Christ — and not to creed. 

The preacher made sin hideous in Gentiles and in Jews; 
He shot the golden sentences straight at the finest pews. 
And, though I can't see very well, I saw the falling tear 
That told me hell was some way off, and heaven very near. 

How swift the golden moments fled within that holy place! 
How brightly beamed the light of heaven from every happy face! 
Again I longed for that sweet time when friend shall meet with 

friend, 
When congregations ne'er break up and Sabbaths have no end. 

I hope to meet that minister, the congregation, too, 

In the dear home beyond the skies, that shines from heaven's 

blue, 
I doubt not I'll remember, beyond life's evening gray, 
The face of God's dear servant who preached His Word to-day. 

Dear wife, the fight will soon be fought, the victory be won, 
The shining goal is just ahead, the race is nearly run. 
O'er the river we are nearin', they are thronging to the shore 
To shout our safe arrival where the weary weep no more. 



TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 119 



The Roll-Call of Home 

f J SOLDIEE came from distant lands, to seek his child- 
m ^ hood's home; 

A gallant boy he marched away, when first he longed to roam, 
With colors flying o'er his head, with music's thrilling strain- 
But now a saddened, dying man, he wandered home again. 



He left his love, the village belle, and cried in careless glee: 
"When medals shine upon my breast, a hero's bride thou'lt 

be!" 
To bring his mother laurels back, his youthful heart had 

yearned; 
A simple cross, a life of toil, were all that he had earned. 

Beside the old church-yard there sat, upon a rustic stile, 

A pretty little village maid, who gave him smile for smile. 

He asked her news of dear old friends — his dog among the 

rest — 
And trem'lous then, he slowly asked for those he loved the 

best. 

But when his father's, mother's name she heard him softly say, 
The merry face grew grave and sad, the bright smile passed 
away; 



120 TEEASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 

She told, their son was lost or dead, their hearts' delight and 

pride ; 
" 'Neath yonder yew-tree," said the maid, "they're sleeping side 

hy side." 

He asked her of his boyhood's love; a joyous answer came, — 

"Thou knowest all my friends," she cried; "that was my moth- 
er's name!" 

The soldier's face was fraught with grief she could not under- 
stand; 

Yet, with a child's quick sympathy, she placed in his her hand, 

"Come home," she said; but with a kiss, quoth he, "That may 

not be; 
I soon shall reach the only home now left on earth for me." 
She was his last remaining friend; and thus, life's journey 

done, 
He gave her all he had to give — the cross, too dearly won! 

Bethought the maid, he needs repose, as he has come from far; 
So prayed that he would tell, some day, the story of the war. 
"We two will rest a little while, for I am tired," she said; 
"Where daisies grow, beneath the tree, come now and rest thy 
head." 

She led him gently to the spot; and sleeping calmly there, 
The mother found them, hand in hand. How different the 

pair ! 
He was at peace; but in that rest where sorrow ne'er may 

come. 
Ah, may the soldier then have gained, in heaven, a better home! 



TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 121 



SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. 



Samuel Taylor Coleridge was born in Devonshire, 
England, October 20th, 1772, and he died in J 834. 
The poet was educated at Christ's Hospital, and Cam- 
bridge University. Coleridge was a great reader, and, 
mentally, he devoured the contents of whole libraries ; 
yet he was a builder of air-castles, — always forming 
great and noble outlines, but seldom filling them. 

"Much of the poet's life was spent in poverty and 
dependence, amidst disappointment and ill-health', and 
in irregularity caused by the excessive use of opium." 
He was almost without ambition. His father being dead, 
young Coleridge, at the age of fourteen, tried to appren- 
tice himself to a shoemaker, although, at this time, he 
possessed an immense stock of learning. The master 
of the school interfered, and kept him at his studies. 

In the poet's first year at college, he gained the 
gold medal for a Greek ode. His debts and attachment 
to the principles of the French Eevolution forced him 
to leave college suddenly. Poverty forced him to be- 
come a soldier under an assumed name, but he never 
advanced beyond the awkward squad. A Latin sentence 
which the captain discovered, led him to enquire for 



122 TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 

the soldier who understood the classics. Coleridge was 
soon after discharged. He then commenced the publica- 
tion of Juvenile Poems by subscription. In company 
with Southey and others, he planned a scheme of emi- 
gration to America. The plan of the proposed govern- 
ment gave ample time for the poets to cultivate litera- 
ture, but the scheme was abandoned after several months 
of dreamy expectation. 

Coleridge's fame is secured chiefly by his poems, 
although he wrote many dramas and essays. His 
poems, Genevieve, Christabel, and Rhyme of the Ancient 
Mariner, are among the best in the language. Although 
he wrote quite extensively, he fell far short of what his 
ability would lead us to expect. Toward the close of 
his life, he seemed to realize that he had wasted the 
greatest powers, which, for some time, had been granted 
to an Englishman. Ardent young men and true admirers 
came from all parts of the country to listen to the 
wisdom of the sage and poet. Coleridge could repeat 
whole pages of books from the first reading. While his 
style is pleasing, yet his conversation was far more 
pleasing, and he exerted a greater influence through 
conversation than through printed books. 



6W^ 



TKEASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 123 



Dead Calm in the Tropics. 

tHE fair breeze blew, the white foam flew, 
The furrow followed free; 
We were the first that ever burst 
Into that silent sea. 

Down dropt the breeze, the sails dropt down, 

'Twas sad as sad could be; 
And we did speak only to break 

The silence of the sea! 

• 
All in a hot and copper sky, 

The bloody Sun, at noon, 
Eight up above the mast did stand, 

No bigger than the Moon. 

Day after day, day after day, 

We stuck, nor breath nor motion; 

As idle as a painted ship 
Upon a painted ocean. 

Water, water everywhere, 

And all the boards did shrink, 
Water, water, everywhere, 

Nor any drop to drink. 



124 TREASURES EROM THE POETIC WORLD. 

The very deep did rot: Christ! 

That ever this should be! 
Yea, slimy things did crawl with legs 

Upon the slimy sea. 



.A Day Dream. 

fjjY eyes make pictures when they're shut: — 
,JJlU I see a fountain large and fair, 
A willow and a ruined hut, 

And thee, and me, and Mary there. 
Mary! make thy gentle lap our pillow! 
Bend o'er us like a bower, my beautiful green willow! 

A wild rose roofs the ruined shed, 

And that and Summer will agree; 
And lo! where Mary leans her head 

Two dear names carved upon the tree! 
And Mary's tears, they are not tears of sorrow: 
Our sister and our friends will both be here to-morrow. 

'Twas day! But now, few, large, and bright, 

The stars are round the crescent moon! 
And now it is a dark, warm night, 

The balmiest of the month of June. 



TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 125 

A glow-worm fallen, and on the marge remounting 
Shines, and its shadow shines, fit stars for our sweet foun- 
tain! 

Oh, ever, ever be thou blest! 

For dearly, Nora, love I thee! 
This brooding warmth across my breast, 

This depth of tranquil bliss — ah, me! 
Fount, tree, and shed are gone — I know not whither; 
But in one quiet room, we three are still together. 

The shadows dance upon the wall, 

By the still-dancing fire-flames made; 
And now they slumber, moveless all! 

And now they melt to one deep shade! 
But not from me shall this mild darkness steal thee; 
I dream thee with mine eyes, and at my heart I feel 
thee. 

Thine eyelash on my cheek doth play; 

'Tis Mary's hand upon my brow! 
But let me check this tender lay, 

Which none may hear but she and thou! 
Like the still hive at quiet midnight humming, 
Murmur it to yourselves, ye two beloved women! 



126 



TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 



| : 



The Battle. 

^EAVY and solemn, 
A cloudy column, 
Through the green plain they marching come! 
Measureless speed, like a table dread, 
For the wild grim dice of the iron game. 
Looks are bent on the shaking ground, 
Hearts beat low with a knelling sound; 
Swift by the breast that must bear the brunt, 
Gallops the major along the front — 

"Halt!" 
And fettered they stand at the stark command, 
And the warriors, silent, halt. 

Proud as the blush of the morning glowing, 

What on the hill-top shines in flowing? 

"See you the foeman's banner waving?" 

"We see the foeman's banner waving!" 

"God be with you, children and wife!" 

Hark to the music, the drum and fife — 

How they ring through the ranks, which they rouse to the 

strife! 
Thrilling they sound, with their glorious tone — 
Thrilling they go through the marrow and bone! 
Brothers, God grant, when this life is o'er, 
In the life to come that we meet once more! 



TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 127 

See the smoke, how the lightning is cleaving asunder! 
Hark! the guns, peal on peal, how they boom in their 

thunder ! 
From host to host with kindling sound, 
The shouted signal circles round; 
Freer already breathes the breath! 
The war is waging, slaughter raging, 
And heavy through the reeking pall 

The iron death-dice fall! 
Nearer they close — foes upon foes — 
"Beady!" — from square to square it goes. 

They kneel as one man from flank to flank, 

And the fire comes sharp from the foremost rank. 

Many a soldier to earth is sent, 

Many a gap by the balls is rent; 

O'er the corpse before springs the hinder man, 

That the line may not fall to the fearless van. 

To the right, to the left, and around and around, 

Death whirls in its dance on the bloody ground. 

God's sunlight is quenched in the fiery fight — 

Over the host falls a brooding night! 

Brothers, God grant, when this life is o'er, 

In the life to come we may meet once more. - 

The dead men are bathed in the weltering blood, 
And the living are blent in the slippery flood, 
And the feet, as they reeling and sliding go, 
Stumble still on the corpse that sleeps below. 
"What! Francis! — Give Charlotte my last farewell." 



128 TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 

As the dying man murmurs, the thunders swell — 

"I'll give — Oh God! are the guns so near? 

Ho! comrades! one volley! look sharp to the rear! — 

I'll give to thy Charlotte thy last farewell! 

Sleep soft, where death thickest decendeth in rain, 

The friend, thou forsaken, thy side may regain!" 

Hitherward, thitherward, reels the fight; 

Dark and more darkly day glooms into night. 

Brothers, God grant, when this life is o'er, 

In the life to come that we meet once more. 

Hark to the hoofs that galloping go! 

The adjutants flying — 

The horsemen press hard on the panting foe, 

Their thunder booms in dying — 

Victory ! 
Tremor has seized on the dastards all, 
And their leaders fall! 

, Victory! 

Closed is the brunt, of the glorious fight, 

And the day, like a conqueror, bursts on the night, 

Trumpet and fife swelling choral along, 

The trumpet already sweeps marching in song. 

Farewell, fallen brothers, though this life be o'er, 

There's another, in which we shall meet you once more! 




TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 



The Last Footfall. 

tERE is often sadness in the tone, 
And a moisture in the eye, 
And a trembling sorrow in the voice, 

When we bid a last good-bye. 
But sadder far than this I ween, 

0, sadder far than all, 
Is the heart-throb with which we strain 
To catch the last footfall. 

The last press of a loving hand 

Will cause a thrill of pain, 
When we think, "Oh, should it prove that we 

Shall never meet again." 
And as lingeringly the hands unclasp, 

The hot, quick drops will fall; 
But bitterer are the tears we shed, 

When we hear the last footfall. 

We never felt how dear to us 

Was the sound we loved full well, 
We never knew hoiv musical, 

'Till its last echo fell: 
And till we heard it pass away 

Far, far beyond recall, 
We never thought what grief 'twould be 

To hear the last footfall. 



129 




!30 TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 

And years and days that long are passed, 

And the scenes that seemed forgot, 
Bush through the mind like meteor-light 

As we linger on the spot; 
And little things that were as nought, 

But now will he our all, 
Come to us like an echo low 

Of the last, the last footfall! 



j 



Your Mission. 

F you cannot on the ocean 
Sail among the swiftest fleet, 
Booking on the highest billows, 

Laughing at the storms you meet,- 
You can stand among the sailors 

Anchored yet within the bay, 
You can lend a hand to help them 
As they launch their boats away. 

If you are too weak to journey 
Up the mountains steep and high, 

You can stand within the valley 
While the multitude go by; 



TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 

You can chant a happy measure 
As they slowly pass along,— 

Though they may forget the singer, 
They may not forget the song. 

If you cannot in the conflict 

Prove yourself a soldier true, 
If where smoke and fire are thickest 

There's no work for you to do; 
When the battle field is silent, 

You can go with careful tread, 
You can bear away the wounded, 

You can cover up the dead. 

Do not, then, stand idly waiting 

For some greater work to do; 
Fortune is a fickle goddess, 

She will never come to you. 
Go and toil in any vineyard, 

Do not fear to do and dare, 
If you want a field of labor, 

You can find it anywhere. 



131 




132 TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 



The Old Arm Ohair. 

1L0VE it! I love it! and who shall dare 
To chide me for loving that old arm chair? 
I've treasured it long as a sainted prize, 
I've bedewed it with tears and embalmed it with sighs, 
Tis bound by a thousand bands to my heart 
Not a tie will break, not a link will start. 
Would you know the spell? A mother sat there! 
And a sacred thing is that old arm chair. 

In childhood's hour I lingered near 

That hallowed seat with a listening ear, 

To the gentle words that mother would give, 

To fit me to die, and teach me to live. 

She told me shame would never betide, 

With truth for my creed and God for my guide; 

She taught me to lisp my earliest prayer, 

As I knelt beside that old arm chair. 

I sat and watched her many a day 

When her eye grew dim, and her locks were gray, 

And I almost worshiped her when she smiled 

And turned from her Bible to bless her child: 

Years rolled on, but the last one sped, 

My idol was shattered, my earth-star fled! 

I felt how much the heart can bear, 

When I saw her die in that old arm chair. 



TKEASUKES FKOM THE POETIC WOELD. 

'Tis past! 'tis past! but I gaze on it now 

With quivering lip and throbbing brow; 

'Twas there she nursed me, 'twas there she died, 

And memory still flows with lava tide. 

Say it is folly, and deem me weak, 

As the scalding drops start down my cheek; 

But I love it! I love it! and can not tear 

My soul from my mother's old arm chair! 



133 



The School. 



B 



E it a weakness, it deserves some praise, 
We love the play-place of our early days; 
The scene is touching, and the heart is stone 
That feels not at that sight, and feels at none. 
The wall on which we tried our graving skill, 
The very name we carved subsisting still; 
The bench on which we sat while deep employed, 
Though mangled, hack'd, and hew'd, not yet destroyed; 
The little ones, unbuttoned, glowing hot, 
Playing our games and on the very spot; 
As happy as we once, to kneel and draw 
The chalky ring, and knuckle down at taw; 
To pitch the ball into the grounded hat, 



134 TEEASUEES FEOM THE POETIC WOELD. 

Or drive it devious with a dextrous pat; 
The pleasing spectacle at once excites 
Such recollection of our own delights, 
That, viewing it, we seem almost to obtain 
Our innocent, sweet, simple years again. 
This fond attachment to the well-known place, 
Whence first we started into life's long race, 
Maintains its hold with such unf ailing sway, 
We feel it e'en in age, and at our latest day. 



Winter Walk at Noon. 



in 



HEEE is in souls a sympathy with sounds, 
A And as the mind is pitched the ear is pleased 
With melting airs, or martial, brisk, or grave; 
Some chord in unison with what we hear 
Is touch'd within us, and the heart replies. 
How soft the music of those evening bells, 
Falling at intervals upon the ear 
In cadence sweet, now dying all away, 
Now pealing loud again, and louder still, 
Clear and sonorous, as the gale comes on! 
With easy force it opens all the cells 
Where memory slept. Wherever I have heard 
A kindred melody the scene recurs, 



TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 135 

And with it all its pleasures and its pains. 

The night was winter' in its roughest mood; 

The morning sharp and clear. But now at noon, 

Upon the southern side of the slant hills, 

And where the woods fence off the northern blast, 

The season smiles, resigning all its rage, 

And has the warmth of May. The vault is blue 

Without a cloud, and white without a speck 

The dazzling splendor of the scene below. 

Again the harmony comes o'er the vale; 

And through the trees I view the embattled tower 

Whence all the music. I again perceive 

The soothing influence of the wafted straiD 

And settle in soft musings as I tread 

The walk, still verdant under oaks and elms, 

Whose outspread branches over-arch the glade. 

The roof, though movable through all its length 

As the wind sways it, has yet well sufficed, 

And, intercepting in their silent fall 

The frequent ^flakes, has kept a path for me. 

No noise is here, or none that hinders thought. 

The redbreast warbles still, but is content 

With slender notes, and more than half suppress'd 

Pleased with his solitude, and flitting light 

From spray to spray, where'er he rests he shakes 

From many a twig the pendant drops of ice, 

That tinkle in the wither'd leaves below. 

Stillness, accompanied with sounds so soft 

Charms more than silence. Meditation here 

May think down hours to moments. Here the hsart 



136 TKEASUEES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 

May give a useful lesson to the head, 
And learning, wiser grow without his books. 
Knowledge and wisdom, far from being one, 
Have of times no connection. Knowledge dwells 
In heads replete with thoughts of other men; 
Wisdom in minds attentive to their own. 
Knowledge, a rude, unprofitable mass, 
The mere materials with which wisdom builds, 
Till smoothed and squared, and fitted to its place, 
Does but encumber whom it seems to enrich. 
Knowledge is proud that he has learned so much; 
Wisdom is humble that he knows no more. 



The Dreamer and His Dreams. 

TRANGELY now the Northern morning 

Streams aloft its mystic light, 
And its fearful banners flashing 

Far along the heavenly height, 
Like a spectral army marching, 

Fill with wonder all the night! 

Gazing out upon the pageant, 

How it brings me back the past,— 

Young Ambition's mighty schemings 
Fame with its loud trumpet-blast; 



TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 137 

AH my early dreams and longings 
Bright with glory to the last. 

Oh, the lofty heights that lifted 

Through the distance in those days, 
And the promise often whispered — 

"There thy standard thou shalt raise, 
Every summit shall be mastered, 

And the world be filled with praise." 

First of all the battle vision 

Blazed upon my boyhood days. 
Plumes and pennons, swords and lances, 

With the cannon's fearful play, 
And the' exultant joy of daring 

In the fierce and bloody fray. 

Then the conqueror home returning, 

Bells should ring and bon-fires flame, 
Floating flags, and arch triumphal, 

Blazoned with my honored name, 
And my country proud and glorious 

With the splendor of my fame! 

Next the wondrous pen should make me 

Fairy scenes with magic art, 
Touching all the chords of feeling, 

Quickening every selfish heart, 
Till the world with joy should witness 

I had acted well my part. 



138 TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 

Then the gifts of Tully won me, 
And the Greek stirred up my soul, 

Till my voice aroused the nations 
With its wide melodious roll, 

And I heard the world applauding 
From the tropics to the pole. 

But the gorgeous visions faded 
As the years went drifting by; 

Like the dancing lights above me, 
For a moment streaming high, 

Then as swiftly sinking downward, 
One by one they left the sky. 

Then another dream of beauty, 
Gentle as the mystic Dove, 

Eose upon my darkened spirit 
With a radiance from above, — 

Oh, there is no dream so blissful 
As the first sweet dream of Love. 

All my life was now illumined 
With a rich and rosy light; 

Earth itself seemed smiling on me, 
And the sky was always bright, 

Every morning fresh with glory, 
And new splendors every night. 

But alas! like this strange beauty 
Flaming up the northern sky, 



TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 139 

Shifting, flashing, sinking, dying, 

So my dream of love did die; 
And my spirit, faint with thirsting, 

Sank beside the fountain dry. 

Last of all there came a vision 

Of earth's want, and woe, and sin; 
Of the wretched I might comfort, 

And the wandering I might win; 
Of the poor, the lone and out-cast 

I might safely gather in. 

But in vain I toiled among them, 

Though with ready heart and hand; 
All my words, and gifts, and pleadings, 

Fell like water in the sand, 
While the rising tide of evil 

Flooded through the darkened land. 

Thus the hopes of life have perished, 

All my brilliant dreams have fled, 
Fame's loud trump has never sounded, 

There's no laurel round my head — 
Toil and struggle now are useless, 

And Ambition's self is dead! 

Starless night is closing round me, 

Winter with its cold and snow; 
Light, nor warmth, nor hope within me, 

Life has nothing to bestow — 
Won from all my earthly longings, 

I am ready now to go. 



140 TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 



The Legend of the Seven Towers. 

On the declaration of war with Russia, made by the Turks in 1786, 
the young Russian minister was taken prisoner and sent to the Seven 
Towers, where he remained two years. He was, however, treated with great 
consideration, and allowed to erect a kiosk on the walls of the fortress, 
and to construct a handsome apartment within the tower itself. The 
commandant who lodged beneath the same roof had a young and 
lovely daughter, who, seeing the captive from her lattices, and moved by 
pity for his sadness, sang for him her sweetest songs, to woo him from 
his grief, and thus began a romance, whose termination proved fatal to 
the sensitive heart of Rechedi.— Miss Pardoe's History of the Turks. 

ITHIN his gorgeous prison sadly dreaming 
Of all the dear delights of native land, 
The Kussian captive sate, amid the gleaming 
Of June's soft sunshine, while her breezes bland 

Uplifted as with cool, caressing finger 

Bright curls as rich in their sunlighted hue, 

As those which round a maiden's fair brow linger, 
Or shyly shade her eyes of bashful blue. 

Unheeded is the joyous laughter coming 
From gayly gilded caiques upon the stream; 

Unheeded is the wild bee's softened humming, — 
They can not wake him from his sad home-dream. 

He muses on the time when round him flinging 

His purple vestments royal favor came; 
And proud ambition in his heart upspringing 

Was weaving for him an undying name. 



TEEASUEES FEOM THE POETIC WOELD. 141 

The trumpet-call to battle he is hearing, — 

He buckles on his armor for the field; 
With anxious heart the liotle band he's cheering, 

"Who find it such a bitterness to yield. 

On speeds the vision, 'till the moonbeams round him 

Fall in their liquid lustre to his feet, 
When suddenly the 'thralling dream that bound him 

Is spoken by a lute tone, soft and sweet. 

He listens — 'tis a woman's clear voice singing, 

In rippling accents, whose resistless flow 
Hath charmed the nightingales, who erst were flinging 

Upon the perfumed air their warblings low. 

"Ha! can it be it is for me she singeth, 

For me, the weary captive stern and sad?" 
The only answer that the night wind bringeth 

Is that bewildering song so gay and glad. 



THE SONG. 

Why mournest thou, captive knight, 

While all the blessed day 
The bulbul tunes his throat of song 

To love's impassioned lay. 

Why mournest thou, when all the air 
Is burdened with delight, — 

Art yearning with the soaring birds 
To wing away in flight? 



142 TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 

Is not thy prison richly decked, — 

Thy prison garden fair. 
"With all the brightest flowers that shed 

Their perfume on the air? 

Chafe not beneath the silken cord 
That binds thee for a time 

Beside Marmora's silver tide, 
Within our sunny clime. 

Fret not to roam the distant hills 
That lift their snow-clad peaks, 

Where only coldest northern winds 
The brow of beauty seeks. 



The song hath ceased, — yet still the captive lingers 
And strives again to hear that voice in vain, 

Only the lute chords, swept by some fair fingers, 
Wake the sweet scented air with softest strain. 

It is the stern commandant's only daughter, 
K6chSdi Hanoum, fairest of the fair; 

\Vho, in her pity for his grief, bethought her 
With music's power to win him from despair. 

Another morrow finds this fair young maiden 
Beguiling with her songs his captive hours; 

And fleetly fly the moments, music-laden, 

While time seems gayly treading upon flowers. 



TREASURES EROM THE POETIC WORLD. 143 

She waves a wreath of Cashmere's brightest roses, 
And binds them with a tress of silken hair, — 

Unseen, the latticed casement she uncloses, 
And flings them at his feet, an offering fair. 

"With eagerness he grasps this first sweet token, 

And covers it with kisses warm and fond; 
He listens, — yet the silence is unbroken, 

She dares not to his pleadings low respond. 

But when another sunset bright and tender 
Lights up the "gilded glories of Stamboul," 

Through lattice bars a fair hand soft and slender 
Waves o'er the cypress alley dim and cool. 

Then with a fearful thought of harem duty 
The jealous blinds she trembling thrusts away 

And stands before him, like a dream of beauty, 
As fresh in loveliness as fabled fay. 

No longer now he wearily outsitteth 

With bitter thoughts the purple twilight hour 

For ever in his visions softly flitteth 

A face that's fairer than the lotus flower. 

Erewhile succeeds a gentler dream than glory, 

The din of battle and of mortal strife; 
And glideth in the sweet yet olden story 

Where fond young hearts with dearest hopes are rife. 

He sees the fair face with its tender blushes, 
That deeper grow beneath his ardent gaze; 



144 TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 

And through his proud, high heart joy's current gushes, 
When in his own that dear hand lightly lays. 

They think not that their sky will be o'erclouded 
Before another moon shall wax and wane, 

Their present is too full of sweet hopes crowded, 
To dream of future tears and future pains. 

■Almost forgotten was the hope of pardon, 

That once lent all the sunshine to his heart,- 

Amid the sunshine of that prison garden, 
He seemed no longer of the world a part. 

They come at last with smiles and words of kindness, 
They open wide the barred and bolted doors, 

His eyes are misty with a tearful blindness, 
As memory unfolds her golden stores. 

How can he break to her who liveth only 
Upon his love, the news that they must part 

How can he think of her he leaveth lonely, 
Perhaps to perish of a broken heart? 

Again the night birds sing their songs of gladness, — 

Again the gilded caiques go gliding by; 
To him joy's cadences are full of sadness, 

As twilight brings the hour of meeting nigh. 

She comes, she comes, her small feet gayly springing, 
"With youth's elastic lightness in her tread, 

Along the cypress walk her sweet voice ringing, 

A sound which strikes his anguished heart with dread. 



TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 145 

Yet soon, too soon, alas! that girlish laughter 

Is hushed beneath the pulses of despair; 
Her stricken heart can think of no hereafter 

Wherein the noble captive cannot share. 

Ere shone another May noon's tender lustre, 
They laid her far away from human sight; 

Above her grave the cypress' dark leaves cluster, 
And whisper moaningly of maiden blight. 

Alas, that youthful hopes should ever perish, 
And youthful hearts be forced to rend away 

The golden net of love, they still must cherish, 
Throughout their weary life's declining day. 



ihe Peri's Song. 

/|L|NE morn a Peri at the gate 
Vtj/ Of Eden stood disconsolate; 
And as she listened to the springs 

Of life within, like music flowing, 
And caught the light upon her wings, 

Through the half-open, portal glowing, 
She wept to think her recreant race 
Had ever lost so bright a place. 

10 



146 TKEASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 

"How happy!" exclaimed this child of air, 
"Are the holy spirits who wander there, 

'Mid flowers that never shall fade or fall! 
Though mine are the gardens of earth and sea, 
And the stars themselves have flowers for me, 

One blossom of heaven out-blooms them all. 

"Though sunny the lake of cool Chasmere, 
With its plane-tree isle reflected clear, 

And sweetly« the founts of that valley fall ; 
Though bright are the waters of Sing-su-Hay, 
And the golden floods that thitherward stray; 
Yet oh! 'tis only the blest can say, 

How the waters of heaven out- shine them all! 

"Go, wing thy flight from star to star, 
From world to luminous world, as far 

As the universe spreads its flaming wall; 
Take all the pleasures of all the spheres, — 
And multiply each through endless years; — 

One minute of heaven is worth them all." 




TREASURES PROM THE POETIC WORLD. 147 



The Curtain. 

HE was walking in the spring time, in the morning-tide of 

life, 

Little reckoning of the journey, of its perils and its strife; 
For the flowers were peeping coyly, and the sunshine glistened 

bright ; 
And the dewdrops lingered, quivering, like fairy hells of light, 
Not a cloud was in the heavens, not a surge was on the deep, 
For the rimpled sea lay breathing in an unimpassioned sleep, 
And the fresh green leaves were nodding, to the whispers of the 

breeze — * 

"Oh! the world must be a paradise with promises like these! 
There's no canker in the blossoms, and no blight upon the trees." 

But tho' beauty bloomed around her, and the velvet turf was 

soft, 
And the budding earth was smiling at the sunny dome aloft; 
Tho' above, behind, beside her, spread a prospect far and wide, 
Yet shadows crossed her pathway, she would fain have cast 

aside : 
For a curtain hung before it — to her very feet it rolled, 
And it checked her looking forward, by its dark and massy fold : 
'Twas her only bar to joyousness — that curtain dense and black, 
For at every onward step she took, it stretched across her track, 
While a form like Time's reached forth its hand and slowly 

pushed it back. 



148 TKEASUBES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 

"Oh! the world is very lovely, and I'm } 7 oung and very gay, 
And the sunbeam's wealth of amber light lies broadcast on my 

way, 
And the sky is like a sea of blue — the sea a- blue, blue sky, 
And the foliage quickens vividly, that late was wan and shy; 
And the sky lark trills a melody, midway to purer spheres; 
And the dew-drops twinkle merrily, as childhood smiles in tears. 
There's no storm-cloud in the heavens, there's no moaning in 

the wind, 
Oh! life's road is not a rugged road, its thorns I cannot find 
But this darksome curtain mars my view and I want to peep 

behind!" 

But old Time passed by unheeding, and the curtain did not rise, 
While a voice like' - ' music whispered: "Child of earth, be wise! 
For that veils the future, which is better left unseen." 
But she answered more impatiently, "Oh! please to raise the 

screen ! 
I am sure I would be happier, if prescience were allowed; 
I should then be warned of danger — now I'm walking in a cloud ; 
It is surely best to be prepared for coming joys and woes!" 
So the air grew dark around her, like the dusk of evening's 

close ; 
But the voice like music spoke no more — and the curtain slowly 

rose. 

She was gazing on a piature of a home from childhood known, 
On a cluster of familiar forms — one form was like her own! 
And it seemed a festal gathering — like that of New Year's day; 



TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 149 

For her grandsire stooped before her, with locks of silver gray; 
And her father, bland and stately, filled his wonted household 

place, 
With her gentle, comely mother, in her lovely matron grace, 
And she saw her dark-eyed sister, like a fairer second self — 
And a golden-headed brother — a mischief-loving elf — 
And a taller, elder, stripling, with a thoughtful student brow; 
'Twas a knot of friends, both old and young, beneath the holly- 
bough, 
And the maiden clapped her hands and laughed, "All happy 
then as now!" 

While the smile was yet upon her lip the scene dissolved and 

changed — 
In a garden lustrous with the moon, a pair of lovers ranged; 
They were lovers— for a manly face so earnest and so brave 
Bent in fondness o'er mirrored self, grown womanly and grave, 
Yes, her mirrored self, whose sweet, frank look returned the 

stranger's gaze, 
As the sunbeam woos the leaf-bud forth, and the bud imbibes 

its rays; 
And the maid exclaimed with arch, gay glance, "They're going 

to confess! 
Oh, they both look rather silly! but all lovers do, I guess! 
And he really is so handsome, that I'm sure I'm saying Yes!" 

But again the picture faded, and another rose to view. 
On a river's bank a crowd had met to bid a ship adieu; 
There were again old home faces, older, sadder, than of yore 



150 TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 

And herself — she stood the foremost weeping wildly on the shore ; 
Every eye was on the vessel, hut her own dim, straining sight 
Only sought on deck one girlish face, whose smiling lips were 

white, 
Tho' she leaned a stalwart form that held her to his heart, 
And the maiden wailed, "My sister! oh, my darling! must we 

part?" 
And a voice cried, "Bound for India" — how its echoes made her 

start ! 

She had clasped her hands across her eyes, for tears were welling 

fast; 
But when next she raised her eyes, hehold! the parting scene 

was past. 
It was now a bridal party, with a white-robed virgin troop 
And the guests in rich apparel — she the center of the group, 
In her snowy dress, and veil of lace, her wreath and jewels 

bright, 
With the rubies glowing redly, and the diamonds flashing bright. 
And the stranger — now her bridegroom — at the altar by her side ; 
And the wedding-bells were pealing — and the nuptial knot was 

tied, 
And the maiden murmured blushingly, "I should like to be a 

bride." 

But the pleasant prospect vanished, till it vanished like the rest; 
And anon, she was a mother with an infant on her breast, 
In an unknown, lofty chamber, she was pacing to and fro, 
And her face was looking upward, but the look was full of woe, 
For the baby lay so stilly, in a slumber so profound, 



TREASUKES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 151 

There was one and only one repose, so very pale and sound, 
And she saw the mother knew it all, but wished to be beguiled, 
Tho' her haunting look of anguish almost drove the maiden 

wild, 
As she sobbed — "I will not be a wife, I will not lose my child." 

It waxed faint as she was speaking, for no vision lingered long, 
And another opened on her, 'midst a romping childish throng; 
Two bright prattlers at her footstool and one kneeling by her 

knee, 
And one throned upon a cushion in a chuckling fit of glee; 
And one tiny, chubby cherub nestled dimpling in her lap, 
While another arm wreathed round her neck, and stirred her 

widow's cap, 
Ah! that widow's cap! it told a tale so sorrowful and plain, 
But the chubby babe crowed laughing, and the widow smiled 

again. 

Still the maiden sighed and pondered while the vision changed anew. 
She was seated by a sick-bed — oh, how aged and gray she grew! 
She was watching, she was waiting for the coming hour of doom 
To the fairest of her household flock, in girl-hood's early bloom, 
For the fragile form lay nerveless, and the cheek like sunset 

flushed, 
And the spirit-eyes were darkening, the loving tones were hushed; 
Then the maiden questioned, shuddering, "The others, where are 

they?" 
And a voice said, "One is worthless, two are wedded far away. 
One lies sleeping in the ocean, one is still his mother's stay." 



152 TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 

"Drop the curtain!" now she pleaded, but her pleadings were in 

vain; 
For another scene was dawning, as the last began to wane; 
Now, reclining in a grandam's chair, with features shrunk and 

old, 
She was pressing to her thin, white cheek a little head of gold; 
But the head of gold, the full bold glance, the pink and rounded 

face, 
They were surely bringing back to mind an earlier baby race, 
For oft' she sighed, and her furrowed brow was sadly overcast, t 
Unconscious grew the fond caress, and her eyes were filling fast 
With the dim, far look that mocks at space and pierces to the 

past. 

It was over! life was ended when that changing picture fled; 
In the next — two mourners sorrowed in the chamber of the 

dead ; 
But theirs was no equal, for he mourned for her who slept, 
While the fairer weeper mourned for him, and grieved because 

he wept: 
For the sleeper was his mother. And the maid with awe-struck 

breath 
Cried, "How strange a thing for young live self to gaze on self 

in age and death!" 
But the shrouded form that once was hers, wore such an air of 

peace, 
That it seemed as though the soul, rejoiced at prospect of 

release, 
Had lit again a long-quenched light, at the moment of decease. 



TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 153 

The scene died out, and the curtain moved as if about to fall, 
But the maiden moaned, "I know too much or need to know it 

all! 
I see my earth's career is run; but show me what became 
Of the student brother, keen to climb the steepest heights of 

fame? 
Of the blue-eyed boy of wayward mood and saucy love of 

mirth? 
Of the dear, dear sister? and of them to whom we owed our 

birth? 
Of the friends, the many friends of youth, whose trusty hearts 

we share? 
I have passed through all the scenes of life, but have not met 

them there; 
Oh, I missed so many from my path! where are they? tell me 

where? 

Then there rose in sight 'mid sombre yews a shadowy church- 
yard 

Where the signal stones loomed spectrally as though they stood 
on guard; 

There engraven on the sculptured slabs, were names of kith and 
kin; 

The vaults had need to be wide and deep, for all who slept 
therein ! 

Not a grave but bore some well-known name, no friend seemed 
missing here, 

And the maiden read each record, but she did not shed a tear, 

As she faltered, "Were there nought beyond the charnel-house 
abyss, 



154 TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 

Who would venture on life's journey? who would prize its shallow 

bliss? 
Show me something to redeem it from a misery like this? 

Then a flood of light shone round her, and the church-yard 

scene was hid, 
And her dazzled eyes ached quivering beneath each drooping lid; 
But she forced her glances upward, where a cloud of silvery hue 
Framed a band of angel faces; every angel face she knew; 
And her own was there among them, but so radiant and so fair! 
And she whispered gladly, eagerly, "Oh, are we all — all there?" 
But a solemn voice said, "Two are lost, the youngest of thy 

seven ; 
And the student youth with whose high aims there mixed unholy 

leaven, 
And whose genius found the way to fame, but lost the way to 

heaven!" 

The voice was mute; and the curtain dark fell silently and slow, 
And the maiden mused: "My path in life through every stage I 

know; 
That glorious final scene atones for all the grief I bore, 
But I've nothing left to hope for now, with all things known 

before; 
I shall never taste a present joy, for coming ills I scan; 
It was mercy's hand that screened from view the future years of man; 
Could we all behold the days to come, and read the troubled tale, 
The boldest glance would shrink appalled, and the stoutest heart 

would quail, 
Oh! I wish — I wish I had not asked to look behind the veil! 




ALFRED TENNYSON. 



TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 155 



ALFRED TENNYSON. 



Alfred Tennyson was born at Somersby, in Lin- 
colnshire, England, January 12, 1810 ; and, at the 
present writing, is living on the Isle of Wight. His 
father, a minister, was described as a man remarkable 
for strength and stature, and for the energetic force of 
his character. Alfred is the oldest of a family of poets. 
The three boys who became poets were educated at Trin- 
ity College, Cambridge, and were pupils of Dr. Whewell. 
In 1829, Alfred gained the Chancellor's medal for an 
English prize poem. 

He and his brother Charles published anonymously 
a small volume, entitled Poems by Two Brothers. In 
1830 and '33, Alfred Tennyson published his first vol- 
umes over his own name. 

While these early poems were subject to severe crit- 
icism, yet many of them showed unmistakable signs of 
genius, and gave the world to understand most dis- 
tinctly that a great poet was arising to command its 
attention. 

Severe treatment from critics caused him to remain 
in close retirement and silent study for a period of about 
nine years. He was moved, probably, by a thought 



156 TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 

similar to the one written by Carlyle to a young author: 
"If the critics treat your first book ill, write the second 
so much better as to shame them." So Tennyson per- 
severed till he placed himself where he belongs — at the 
head of living English poets. The following are among 
his productions : Godiva, May Queen, The Gardener's 
Daughter, Talking Oak, Locksley Hall, The Lotus Eaters, 
The Princess, In Memoriam, Enoch Arden, Idyls of the 
King. We have not space to mention more of his ex- 
cellent poems. In giving an estimate of the present poet- 
laureate of England, we can do no better than to quote 
from our own loved and lamented Longfellow, "To Alfred 
Tennyson " : 

Poet! I come to touch thy lance with mine; 
Not as a knight, who on the listed field 
Of tourney touched his adversary's shield 

In token of defiance, but in sign 

Of homage to the mastery, which is thine 
In English song, nor will I keep concealed 
And voiceless as rivulet frost-congealed, 

My admiration for thy verse divine. 
Not of the howling dervishes of song, 

Who craze the brain with their delirious dance, 
Art thou, sweet historian of the heart! 
Therefore, to thee the laureate-leaves belong, 

To thee our love and our allegiance, 

For thy allegiance to the poet's art. 



TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 157 



Charge of the Heavy Brigade- 

tHE charge of the gallant Three Hundred, the Heavy Brig- 
ade! 
Down the hill, down the hill, thousands of Kussians, 
Thousands of horsemen drew to the valley — and stayed. 
For Scarlett and Scarlett's Three Hundred were riding hy 
When the points of the Eussian lances broke in on the sky; 
And he called "Left wheel into line!" and they wheeled and 
obeyed, 
Then he looked at the host that had halted, he knew not 
why, 
And he turned half round, and he bade his trumpeter sound 
"To the charge!" and he rode on ahead, as he waved his blade 
To the gallant Three Hundred, whose glory will never die. 
"Follow up the hill!" 
Up the hill, up the hill, followed the Heavy Brigade. 
The trumpet, the gallop, the charge and the might of the fight! 
Down the hill, slowly, thousands of Bussians 
Drew to the valley, and halted at last on the height 
With a wing pushed out to the left and a wing to the right. 

But Scarlett was far on ahead, and he dashed up alone 

Through the great gray slope of men; 
And he whirled his sabre, he held his own 

Like an Englishman there and then. 



158 TREASURES EROM THE POETIC WORLD. 

And the three that were nearest him followed with force, 
Wedged themselves in between horse and horse, 

Fought for their lives in the narrow gap they had made, 
Four amid thousands; and up the hill, up the hill, 

Galloped the gallant Three Hundred, the Heavy Brigade. 

Fell, like a cannon shot, 
Burst, like a thunderbolt, 
Crashed, like a hurricane, 
Broke through the mass from below, 
Drove through the midst of the foe, 
Plunged up and down, to and fro, 
Bode flashing, blow upon blow, 
Brave Enniskillens and Greys, 
"Whirling their sabres in circles of light; 

And some of us, all in amaze, 
Who were held for awhile from the fight 

And were only standing at gaze, 
When the dark muffled Bussian crowd 

Folded its wings from the left and the right 
And rolled them around like a cloud — 
Oh! mad for the charge and the battle were we 

When our own good red coats sank from sight, 
Like drops of blood in a dark gray sea; 
And we turned to each other, muttering, all dismayed, — 
"Lost are the gallant Three Hundred, the Heavy Brigade!" 
But they rode, like victors and lords, 
Through the forests of lances and swords 
In the heart of the Bussian hordes 
They rode, or they stood at bay; 



TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 159 

Struck with the sword hand and slew; 
Down with the bridle-hand drew 
The foe from the saddle, and threw 
Under foot there in the fray: 
Eaged like a storm, or stood like a rock 

In the wave of a stormy day; 
Till suddenly shock upon shock, 
Staggered the mass from without; 
For our men galloped up with a cheer and a shout, 
And the Eussians surged, and wavered and reeled 
Up the hill, up the hill, up the hill, out of the field, 
Over the brow and away! 

Glory to each and to all, and the charge that they made! 
Glory to all the Three Hundred, the Heavy Brigade! 




160 TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 



The Old Home. 

E love the well beloved place 

Where first we gazed upon the sky; 
The roofs that heard our earliest cry 
Will shelter one of stranger race. 

We go, but ere we go from home, 
As down the garden- walks I move, 
Two spirits of a diverse love 

Contend for loving masterdom. 

One whispers, "Here thy boyhood sung 
Long since its matin song, and heard 
The low love -language of the bird, 

In native hazels, tassel hung." 

The other answers, "Yea, but here 
Thy feet have strayed in after hours, 
With thy best friend among the bowers, 

And this had made them trebly dear." 

These two have striven half the day, 
And each prefers his separate claim, 
Poor rivals in a losing game, 

That will not yield each other way. 



TEEASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 161 

I turn to go: my feet are set 

To leave the pleasant fields and farms; 

They mix in one another's arms 
To one pure image of regret. 



From "The Princess. 



<fk 



]ABS, idle tears, I know not what they mean: 
A Tears from the depths of some divine despair 
Eise in the heart and gather to the eyes, 
In looking on the happy autumn fields, 
And thinking of the days that are no more. 

Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail, 
That brings our friends up from the under world, 
Sad as the last which reddens over one 
That sinks with all we love below the verge! 
So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more. 

Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns 
The earliest pipe of half-awakened birds 
To dying ears, when unto dying eyes 
The casement slowly grows a glimmering square; 
So sad, so ' strange, the days that are no more. 
11 



162 TKEASUKES FEOM THE POETIC WOBLD. 

Dear as remembered kisses after death, 
And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feigned 
On lips that are for others; deep as love, 
Deep as first love, and wild with all regret; 
Death in life! the days that are no more! 



Break, Break, Break. 

BEAK, break, break, 

On thy' cold, gray stones, sea! 
And I would that my tongue could utter 
The thoughts that arise in me. 



B 



Oh, well for the fisherman's boy 

That he shouts with his sister at play! 

Oh, well for the sailor lad 

That he sings in his boat on the bay! 

And the stately ships go on 

To the haven under the hill; 
But oh, for the touch of a vanished hand, 

And the sound of a voice that is still! 

Break, break, break, 

At the foot of thy crags, sea! 
But the tender grace of a day that is dead 

"Will never come back to me! 



TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 



163 



Ring Out, Wild Bells. 

tING out, wild bells, to the wild sky, 
The flying cloud, the frosty light; 
The year is dying in the night — 
Eing out, wild bells, and let him die. 



Eing out the old, ring in the new — 
Eing, happy bells, across the snow; 
The year is going, let him go; 

Eing out the false, ring in the true. 

Eing out the grief that saps the mind, 
For those that here we see no more; 
Eing out the feud of rich and poor, 

Eing in redress to all mankind. 

Eing out a slowly dying cause, 
And ancient forms of party strife; 
Eing in the nobler modes of life, 

With sweeter manners, purer laws. 



Eing out the want, the care, the sin, 
The faithless coldness of the times, 
Eing out, ring out my mournful rhymes, 

But ring the fuller minstrel in. 



164 TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 

Eing out false pride in place and blood, 
The civic slander and the spite; 
Ring in the love of truth and right, 

Eing in the common love of good. 

Eing out old shapes of foul disease, 
Eing out the narrowing lust of gold; 
Eing out the thousand wars of old, 

Eing in the thousand years of peace. 

Eing in the valiant man and free, 
The larger heart, the kindlier hand, 
Eing out the darkness of the land — 

Eing in the Christ that is to be. 



The Water-Mill. 

KISTEN to the water-mill, 
' Through the live long day, 
How the clicking of the wheel 

Wears the weary hours away — 
Languidly the Autumn wind 
Stirs the withered leaves; 
On the field the reapers sing, 
Binding up the sheaves. 



TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 165 

And a proverb haunts my mind, 

And as a spell is cast: 
"The mill will never grind 

With the water that is past." 

Summer winds revive no more 

Leaves strewn over earth and main; 
And the sickle ne'er can reap 

The gathered grain again; 
And the rippling stream flows on, 

Tranquil, deep and still, 
Never gliding back again 

To the water-mill. 
Truly speaks the proverb old 

With a meaning vast: 
"The mill will never grind 

With the water that is past." 

Oh, the wasted hours of life 

That have swiftly drifted by! 
Oh, the good we might have done, 

Gone and lost without a sigh! 
Love, that we might once have saved, 

By a single kindly word! 
Thoughts conceived but ne'er expressed, 

Perishing unpenned, unheard! 
Take the proverb to thy soul — 

Take, and clasp it fast: 
"The mill will never grind 

With the water that is past." 



166 TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 

Oh, love thy God and fellow-man, 

Thyself consider last; 
For come it will when thou must scan 

Dark errors of the past; 
And when the flight of life is o'er, 

And earth recedes from view, 
And heaven in all its glory shines, 

'Midst pure, and good, and true, 
Then you will see more truly 
. The proverb deep and vast: 
"The mill will never grind 

With the water that is past." 

Take the lesson to thyself, 

Loving hearts and true; 
Golden hours are fleeting by, 

Youth is passing, too; 
Learn to make the most of life; 

Lose no happy day; 
Time will ne'er return sweet joys 

Neglected- — thrown away. 
Leave no tender word unsaid, 

But love while love shall last; 
"The mill will never grind 

With the water that is past." 

Work while yet the sun doth shine, 
Man of strength and will; 

Never doth the streamlet glide, 
Useless by the mill. 



TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 167 

Wait not till to-morrow's sun 

Beams brightly on the way; 
All that thou canst call thine own 

Lies in the phrase "To-day!" 
Power, intellect and blooming health, 

May not, will not always last: 
"The mill will never grind 

With the water that is past." 



The River and the Tide. 

«N the bank of a river was seated, one day, 
An old man, and close by his side 
Was a child, who had paused from his laughing and play 
To gaze at the stream, as it hurried away 
To the sea with the ebb of the tide. 

"What see you, my child, in the stream, as it flows 

To the ocean so dark and deep? 
Are you watching how swift, yet how silent it goes? 
Thus hurry our lives, till they sink in repose, 

And are lost in a measureless sleep. 

"Now listen, my boy! you are young, I am old, 
And yet like two rivers are we; 



168 TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 

Though the flood-tide of youth from time's ocean is rolled, 
Yet it ebbs all too soon, and its waters grow cold, 
As it creeps back again to the sea. 

"But the river returns!" cried the boy, while his eyes 

Gleamed bright as the waters below. 
"Ah! yes," said the old man; but time, as it flies, 
Turns the tide of our life, and it never can rise." 

"But first," said the boy, "it must flow." 

Thus, watching its course from the bank of the stream, 

They mused, as they sat side by side; 
Each read different tales in the river's bright gleam — 
One borne with the flow of a glorious dream, 

And one going out with the tide. 



Labor. 



I jAUSE not to dream of the future before us; 
f Pause not to weep the wild cares that come o'er us; 
Hark, how creation's deep, musical chorus, 

Unintermitting, goes up into heaven! 
Never the ocean wave falters in flowing; 
Never the little seed stops in its growing; 
More and more richly the rose-heart keeps glowing, 
Till from its nourishing stem it is riven. 



TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 169 

"Labor is worship!" the robin is singing; 
"Labor is worship!" the wild bee is ringing; 
Listen! that eloquent whisper, upspringing, 

Speaks to my soul from out Nature's great heart. 
From the dark cloud flows the life-giving shower; 
From the rough sod comes the soft-breathing flower 
From the small insect the rich coral bower; 

Only man, in the plan, ever shrinks from his part. 

"Labor is life!" — 'Tis the still water faileth; 

Idleness ever despaireth, bewaileth; 

Keep the watch wound, for the dark rust assaileth! 

Flowers droop and die in the stillness of noon, 
Labor is glory! — the flying cloud lightens; 
Only the waving wing changes and brightens; 
Idle hearts only the dark future frightens; 

Play the sweet keys would' st thou keep them in tune. 

Labor is rest, from the sorrows that greet us; 
Eest from the petty vexations that meet us; 
Eest from sin -promptings that ever entreat us; 

Eest from world-sirens that lure us to ill. 
"Work — and pure slumbers shall wait on thy pillow; 
"Work — thou shalt ride over Care's coming billow; 
Lie not down wearied 'neath "Woe's weeping willow; 

"Work with stout heart and resolute will. 

Droop not, though shame, sin and anguish are round thee; 
Bravely fling off the cold chain that has bound thee; 
Look to yon pure heaven smiling beyond thee; 
Eest not content in thy darkness — a clod: 



170 TREASURES PROM THE POETIC WORLD. 

Work — for some good, be it ever so slowly; 
Cherish some flower, be it ever so lowly; 
Labor! — all labor is noble and holy; 

Let thy great deeds be thy prayer to thy God. 



My Mother. 

tHE feast was o'er. Now brimming wine, 
In lordly cup, was seen to shine 
Before each eager guest; 
And silence filled the crowded hall 
As deep as when the herald's call 
Thrills in the loyal breast. 

Then up arose the noble host, 

And, smiling, cried: "A toast! a toast! 

To all our ladies fair; 
Here, before all, I pledge the name 
Of Stanton's proud and beauteous dame, 

The Lady Gundamere." 

Quick to his feet each gallant sprang, 
And joyous was the shout that rang, 
As Stanley gave the word; 



TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 171 

And every cup was raised on high, 
Nor ceased the loud and gladsome cry 
Till Stanley's voice was heard. 

"Enough, enough," he, smiling, said, 
And lowly bent his haughty head; 

"That all may have their due, 
Now each in turn must play his part 

And pledge the lady of his heart, , 

Like a gallant knight and true." 

Then, one by one, each guest sprang up, 
And drained in turn the brimming cup, 

And named the loved one's name; 
And each, as hand on high he raised, 
His lady's grace and beauty praised, 

Her constancy and fame. 

'Tis now St. Leon's turn to rise; 

On him are fixed these countless eyes; 

A gallant knight is he; 
Envied by some, admired by all, 
Far famed in lady's bower and hall, 

The flower of chivalry. 

St. Leon raised his kindling eye, 
And held the sparkling cup on high: 

"I drink to one," he said, • 

"Whose image never may depart, 
Deep graven on this grateful heart, 

Till memory be dead; 



172 TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 

"To one whose love for me shall last 
"When lighter passions long have past, 

So deep it is, and pure; 
"Whose love hath longer dwelt, I ween, 
Than any yet that pledged hath been 

By these brave knights before." 

Each guest upstarted at the word 
And laid a hand upon his sword 

With fury-flashing eye; 
And Stanley said: "We crave the name, 
Proud knight, of this most peerless dame, 

Whose love you count so high." 

St. Leon paused, as if he would 

Not breathe her name in careless mood 

Thus lightly to another; 
Then bent his noble head, as though 
To give that word the reverence due, 

And gently said, "My mother." 




TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 173 



Time and its Changes. 

tHEEE is no charm in time, as time, nor good; 
The long days are no happier than the short ones. 
'Tis some time now since I was here. We leave 
Our home in youth, no matter to what end; 
Study, or strife, or pleasure, or what not; 
And coming back in few short years, we find 
All as we left it, outside; the old elms, 
The house, grass, gates, and latchet's selfsame click; 
But lift that latchet — all is changed as doom: 
The servants have . forgotten our step, and more 
Than half of those who knew us, know us not. 
Adversity, prosperity, the grave, 

Play a round game with friends. On some the world 
Hath shut its evil eye, and they are passed 
From honor and remembrance, and a stare 
Is all the mention of their names receives; 
And people know no more of them than of 
The shapes of clouds at midnight, a year back. 




174 TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 



Raphael's Account of the Creation. 

EAVEN opened wide 

Her ever- during gates — harmonious sound 
On golden hinges moving, to let forth 
The King of Glory, in his powerful word 
And Spirit coming to create new worlds. 
On heavenly ground they stood; and, from the shore 
They viewed the vast, immeasurahle abyss, 
Outrageous as a sea, dark, wasteful, wild, 
Up from the bottom turned by furious winds, 
And surging waves, as mountains, to assault 
Heaven's height, and with the centre mix the pole. 

"Silence, ye troubled waves, and, thou deep, peace," 

Said then the omnific Word; "your discord end!" 

Nor staid, but, on the wings of cherubim 

Uplifted, in paternal glory rode 

Far into Chaos, and the world unborn; 

Eor Chaos heard his voice; him all his train 

Followed in bright procession, to behold 

Creation, and the wonders of his might. 

Then staid the fervid wheels, and in his hand 

He took the golden compasses, prepared 

In God's eternal store, to circumscribe 

This universe, and all created things; 



TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 175 

One foot he centred, and the other turned 
Bound through the vast profundity obscure, 
And said, "Thus far extend, thus far thy bounds, 
This be thy just circumference, world!" 
Thus God the heaven created, thus the earth, 
Matter unformed and void; darkness profound 
Covered the abyss; but on the watery calm 
His brooding wings the Spirit of God outspread, 
And vital virtue infused, and vital warmth 
Throughout the fluid mass. 

Then founded, then conglobed 
Like things to like, the rest to several place 
Disparted, and between spun out the air; 
And earth, self-balanced, on her centre hung. 



"Let there be light," said God; and forthwith light 
Ethereal, first of things, quintessence pure, 
Sprung from the deep, and from her native east, 
To journey through the airy gloom began, 
Sphered in a radiant cloud; for yet the sun 
"Was not; she in a cloudy tabernacle 
Sojourned the while. God saw the light was good, 
And light from darkness, by the hemisphere, 
Divided: light the day, and darkness night, 
He named; thus was the first day even and morn; 
Nor passed uncelebrated, nor unsung 
By the celestial choirs, when orient light 
Exhaling first from darkness they beheld 
Birthday of heaven and earth: with joy and shout 



176 TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 

The hollow universal orb they filled, 

And touched their golden harps, and hymning praised 

God and his works; Creator him they sung, 

Both when first evening was, and when first morn. 



Intimations of Immortality. 

/w\ LISTEN, man! 

VCk * A voice within us speaks the startling word, 

"Man, thou shalt never die!" Celestial voices 

Hymn it round our souls; according harps, 

By angel fingers touch'd, when the mild stars 

Of morning sang together, sound forth still 

The song of our great immortality! 

Thick clustering orbs, and this our fair domain, 

The tall, dark mountains, and the deep-toned seas, 

Join in this solemn, universal song. 

0, listen, ye, our spirits! drink it in 
From all the air! 'Tis in the gentle moonlight; 
'Tis floating in day's setting glories; night, 
Wrapp'd in her sable robe, with silent step, 
Comes to our bed, and breathes it in our ears; 
Night and the dawn, bright day and thoughtful eve, 
All time, all bounds, the limitless expanse, 



TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 177 

As one vast mystic instrument, are touch'd 

By an unseen, living hand, and conscious chords 

Quiver with joy in this great jubilee. 

The dying hear it; and as sounds of earth 
Grow dull and distant, wake their passing souls, 
To mingle in this heavenly harmony. 



Farewell. 



£ JABEWELL! — but whenever you welcome the hour 
f I That awakens the night-song of mirth in your bower 
Then think of the friend who once welcomed it too, 
And forgot his own griefs to be happy with you. 
His griefs may return, not a hope may remain 
Of the few that have brightened his pathway of pain; 
But he ne'er will forget the short vision that threw 
Its enchantment around him, while lingering with you. 

And still on that evening, when pleasure fills up 
To the highest top sparkle each heart and each cup, 
Where'er my path lies, be it gloomy or bright, 
My soul, happy friends, shall be with you that night; 
Shall join in your revels, your sports, and your wiles, 
And return to me beaming all o'er with your smiles — 
Too blest, if he tells me that, 'mid the gay cheer, 
Some kind voice had murmured, "I wish he were here!" 



178 TEEASUEES EEOM THE POETIC WOELD. 

Let Fate do her worst; there are relics of joy, 
Bright dreams of the past which she can not destroy; 
Which come in the night-time of sorrow and care, 
And bring back the features that joy used to wear. 
Long, long be my heart with such memories filled! 
Like the vase, in which roses have once been distilled- 
You may break, you may shatter the vase if you will, 
But the scent of the roses will hang round it still. 



The Time I've Lost in Wooing. 

tHE time I've lost in wooing, 
In watching and pursuing 

The light that lies 

In woman's eyes, 
Has been my heart's undoing. 
Though wisdom oft has sought me, 
I scorned the lore she brought me, — 

My only books 

Were woman's looks, 
And folly's all they've taught me. 

Her smile when Beauty granted, 
I hung with gaze enchanted, 
Like him the Sprite 
Whom maids by night 



TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. * 179 

Oft meet in glen that's haunted. 
Like him, too, Beauty won me 
But while her eyes were on me; 

If once their ray 

Was turned away, 
Oh! winds could not outrun me. 

And are those follies going? 
And is my proud heart growing 

Too cold or wise 

For brilliant eyes 
Again to set it glowing? 
No — vain, alas! th' endeavor 
From bonds so sweet to sever, — 

Poor Wisdom's chance 

Against a glance 
Is now as weak as ever. 



Our Country. 



tHEBE is a land, of every land the pride, 
Beloved by Heaven, o'er all the world beside, 
Where brighter suns dispense serener light, 
And milder noons emparadise the night; 
A land of beauty, virtue, valor, truth, 
Time-tutored age, and love-exalted youth. 



180 TEEASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 

The wandering mariner, whose eye explores 
The wealthiest isles, the most enchanting shores, 
Views not a realm so bountiful and fair, 
Nor breathes the spirit of a purer air; 
In every clime, the magnet of his soul, 
Touched by remembrance, trembles to that pole. 

For in this land of Heaven's peculiar grace, 
The heritage of nature's noblest race, 
There is a spot of earth supremely blest, 
A dearer, sweeter spot than all the rest, 
Where man, creation's tyrant, casts aside 
His sword and scepter, pageantry and pride, 
While in his softened looks benignly blend 
The sire, the son, the husband, brother, friend. 

Here woman reigns, the mother, daughter, wife, 
Strews with fresh flowers the narrow way of life; 
In the clear heaven of her delightful eye, 
An angel-guard of loves and graces lie; 

Around her knees domestic duties meet, 

And fireside pleasures gambol at her feet. 

Where shall that land — that spot of earth be found? 

Art thou a man? — a patriot? — look around; 

Oh! thou shalt find, howe'er thy footsteps roam, 

That land thy country, and that spot thy home. 



TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 181 



Song of the Pioneers. 

r ^ SONG for the early times out West, 
tJ X And our green old forest home, 
Whose pleasant memories freshly yet 

Across the bosom come: 
A song for the free and gladsome life, 

In the early days we led, 
With a teeming soil beneath our feet, 

And a smiling heav'n o'erhead! 
Oh, the waves of life danced merrily, 

And had a joyous flow, 
In the days when we were pioneers, 

Seventy years ago! 

The hunt, the shot, the glorious chase, 

The captured elk or deer; 
The camp, the big, bright fire, and then 

The rich and wholesome cheer: 
The sweet, sound sleep, at dead of night, 

By our camp-fire, blazing high — 
Unbroken by the wolf's long howl, 

And the panther springing by. 
Oh, merrily passed the time, despite 

Our wily Indian foe, 
In the days when we were pioneers, 

Seventy years ago! 



182 TREASURES FROM THE POETIC "WORLD. 

We shunned not labor: when 'twas due, 

We wrought with right good will; 
And for the homes we won for them, 

Our children bless us still. 
We lived not hermit lives, but oft 

In social converse met; 
And fires of love were kindled then, 

That burn on warmly yet. 
Oh, pleasantly the stream of life 

Pursued its constant flow, 
In the days when we were pioneers, 

Seventy years ago! 

We felt that we were fellow-men; 

We felt we were a band, 
Sustained here in the wilderness 

By Heaven's upholding hand. 
And. when the solemn Sabbath came, 

Assembling in the wood, 
We lifted up our hearts in prayer 

To God, the only Good. 
Our temples then were earth and sky; 

None others did we know, 
In the days when we were pioneers, 

Seventy years ago! 

Our forest-life was rough and rude, 
And dangers closed us round; 

But here, amid the green old trees, 
Freedom was sought and found. 



TEEASUKES EROM THE POETIC WORLD. 183 

Oft through our dwellings wintry blasts 

Would rush with shriek and moan; 
We cared not — though they were but frail, 

We felt they were our own! 
Oh, free and manly lives we led, 

'Mid verdure, or 'mid snow, 
In the days when we were pioneers, 

Seventy years ago. 

But now our course of life is short; 

And as, from day to day, 
We're walking on with halting step, 

And fainting by the way, 
Another land more bright than this 

To our dim sight appears, 
And on our way to it we'll soon 

Again be pioneers! 
Yet while we linger, we may all 

A backward glance still throw, 
To the days when we were pioneers, 

Seventy years ago. 




184 TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 



A Prayer in the Prospect of Death. 

/¥\ Thou unknown, Almighty Cause 
\£/ Of all my hope and fear! 
In whose dread presence, ere an hour, 
Perhaps I must appear! 

If I have wandered in those paths 

Of life I ought to shun; 
As something, loudly, in my breast 

Eemonstrates I have done, — 

Thou know'st that Thou hast formed me 

With passions wild and strong; 
And list'ning to their witching voice 

Has often lead me wrong. 

"Where human weakness has come short, 

Or frailty steps aside, 
Do thou, All-Good! — for such thou art — 

In shades of darkness hide. 

Where with intention I have erred, 

No other plea I have, 
But, Thou art good; and goodness still 

Delighteth to forgive. 



TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 185 



The Prisoner of Ohillon, 



Chillon is a castle on Lake Geneva. The speaker in this poem is one 
of three brothers who were imprisoned on account of their ^religious 
opinions. 



Ti 



HEEE are seven pillars of Gothic mold 
^ In Chillon' s dungeons deep and old, 
And in each pillar there is a ring, 

And in each ring there is a chain. 
That iron is a cankering thing, 

For in these limbs its teeth remain, 
With marks that will not wear away, 
Till I have done with this new day, 
Which now is painful to these eyes, 
Which have not seen the sun so rise 
For years — I can not count them o'er, 
I lost their long and heavy score 
When my last brother drooped and died, 
And I lay living by his side. 

They chained us each to a column stone, 
And we were three, yet each alone: 
We could not move a single pace, 
We could not see each other's face, 
But with that pale and livid light 
That made us strangers in our sight. 
And thus together, yet apart, 



186 TEEASUEES FEOM THE POETIC WOELD. 

Fetter'd in hand, but pined in heart, 
'Twas still some solace, in the dearth 
Of the pure elements of earth, 
To hearken to each other's speech, 
And each turn comforter to each, 
With some new hope, or legend old, 
Or song heroically bold; 
But even these at length grew cold. 

Our voices took a dreary tone, 
An echo of the dungeon stone, 
A grating sound, not full and free, 
As they of yore were wont to be; 
It might be fancy, but to me 

They never sounded like our own. 

I was the eldest of the three, 
And to uphold and cheer the rest, 
I ought to do, and did, my best; 

And each did well in his degree. 

The youngest, whom my father lov'd, 
Because our mother's brow was given 
To him, with eyes as blue as heaven, 

For him my soul was sorely moved: 
And truly might it be distress'd 
To see such bird in such a nest; 
For he was beautiful as day, 
And in his natural spirit gay, 
With tears for naught but others' ills; 
And then they flowed like mountain rills, 



TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 187 

Unless he could assuage the woe 
Which he abhorr'd to view below. 

The other was as pure of mind, 
But formed to combat with his kind; 
Strong in his frame, and of a mood 
Which 'gainst the world in war had stood, 
And perish'd in the foremost rank 

With joy; but not in chains to pine; 
His spirit wither' d with their clank; 

I saw it silently decline, 

And so, perchance, in sooth did mine; 
But yet I forced it on to cheer 
Those relics of a home so dear. 
He was a hunter of the hills, 

Had followed there the deer and wolf; 

To him this dungeon was a gulf, 
And fettered feet the worst of ills. 



I said my nearer brother pined, 
I said his mighty heart declined, 
He loathed and put away his food; 
It was not that 'twas coarse and rude, 
For we were used to hunters' fare, 
And for the like had little care; 
The milk drawn from the mountain goat 
Was changed for water from the moat; 
Our bread was such as captives' tears 
Have moisten'd many a thousand years, 



188 TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 

Since man first pent his fellow-men 
Like brutes within an iron den. 

But what were these to us or him? 
These wasted not his heart or limb; 
My brother's soul was of that mold 
Which in a palace had grown cold, 
Had his free breathing been denied 
The range of the steep mountain's side: 
But why delay the truth? He died. 
I saw, and could not hold his head, 
Nor reach his dying hand, nor dead; 
Though hard I strove, but strove in vain, 
To rend and gnash my bonds in twain. 
He died, and they unlock'd his chain, 
And scoop 'd for him a shallow grave 
Even from the cold earth of our cave. 

I begg'd them, as a boon, to lay 
His corpse in dust whereon the day 
Might shine: it was a foolish thought; 
But then within my brain it wrought, 
That even in death his freeborn breast 
In such a dungeon could not rest. 
I might have spared my idle prayer; 
They coldly laugh' d, and laid him there, 
The flat and turfless earth above 
The being we so much did love; 
His empty chain above it leant, — 
Such murder's fitting monument! 



TKEASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 



189 



But he, the favorite and the flower 
Most cherish 'd since his natal hour, 

His mother's image in fair face, 
The infant love of all his race, 
His martyred father's dearest thought, 
My latest care, for whom I sought 
To hoard my life, that his might he 
Less wretched now, and one day free; 
He, too, who yet had held untired, 
A spirit natural or inspired, 
He, too, was struck, and day by day 
Was withered on the stalk away. 

God! it is a fearful thing 

To see the human soul take wing 

In any shape, in any mood: 

I've seen it rushing forth in blood, 

I've seen it on the breaking ocean 

Strive with a swoln, convulsive motion, 

I've seen the sick and ghastly bed 

Of sin delirious with its dread; 

But these were horrors; this was woe 

Unmix' d with such, but sure and slow. 

He faded, and so calm and meek, 
So softly worn, so sweetly weak, 
So tearless, yet so tender, kind, 
And grieved for those he left behind; 
"With, all the while, a cheek whose bloom 
Was as a mockery of the tomb, 



190 TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 

Whose tints as gently sunk away 

As a departing rainbow's ray, 

An eye of most transparent light, 

That almost made the dungeon bright; 

And not a word of murmur, not 

A groan o'er his untimely lot, 

A little talk of better days, 

A little hope my own to raise; 

For I was sunk in silence, lost 

In this last loss, of all the most. 

And then the sighs he would suppress, 

Of fainting nature's feebleness, 

More slowly drawn, grew less and less: 

I listen'd, but I could not hear, 

I call'd, for I was wild with fear; 

I knew 'twas hopeless, but my dread 

Would not be thus admonished; 

I call'd, and thought I heard a sound; 

I burst my chain with one strong bound, 

And rushed to him: I found him not; 

I only stirred in this black spot, 

I only liv'd, I only drew 

The accursed breath of dungeon dew; 

The last, the sole, the dearest link 

Between me and the eternal brink, 

Which bound me to my failing race, 

Was broken in this fatal place. 



TEEASUEES FEOM THE POETIC WOELD. 191 



The Loom of Life. 

BjLL day, a ll night, I can hear the jar 
Vl^ Of the loom of life, and near and far 
It thrills with its deep and muffled sound, 
As tireless the wheels go always round. 

Busily, ceaselessly, goes the loom, 
In the light of day and the midnight's gloom, 
And the wheels are turning early and late, 
And the wool is wound in the warp of fate. 

Click, click! — there's the thread of love woven in, 
Click, click! — another of wrong and sin; 
"What a checkered thing this life will be 
When we see it unrolled in eternity! 

"When shall this wonderful web be done? 

In a thousand years, perhaps, or one; 

Or to-morrow! Who knoweth? Not thou or I; 

But the wheels turn on and the shuttles fly. 

Ah, sad-eyed weavers, the years are slow, 
But each one is nearer the end, I know; 
And soon the last thread shall be woven in — 
God grant it be love instead of sin. 



192 TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 

Are we spinners of good in this life- web — say? 
Do we furnish the weaver a thread each day? 
It were better, oh my friends, to spin 
A beautiful thread, than a thread of sin. 



Press On! 



fEESS on! surmount the rocky steeps, 
Climb boldly o'er the torrent's arch: 
He fails alone who feebly creeps, 

He wins who dares the hero's march. 
Be thou a hero! let thy might 

Tramp on eternal snows its way, 
And, through the ebon walls of night, 
Hew down a passage unto day. 

Press on! if once and twice thy feet 

Slip back and stumble, harder try; 
From him who never dreads to meet 

Danger and death, they're sure to fly. 
To coward ranks the bullet speeds, 

While on their breast who never quail, 
Gleams guardian of chivalric deeds, 

Bright courage, like a coat of mail. 



TBEASURES FKOM THE POETIC WOELD. 193 

Press on! if fortune play thee false 

To-day, to-morrow she'll be true; 
Whom now she sinks, she now exalts, — 

Taking old gifts and granting' new, 
The wisdom of the present hour 

Makes up for follies past and gone: 
To weakness strength succeeds, and power 

From frailty springs — Press on! press on! 

Therefore, press on! and reach the goal, 

And gain the prize, and wear the crown: 
Faint not! for to the steadfast soul 

Come wealth, and honor, and renown. 
To thine own self be true, and keep 

Thy mind from sloth, thy heart from soil; 
Press on! and thou shalt surely reap 

A heavenly harvest for thy toil. 




13 



194 TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 



The Vine. 

PART I. 

Bl VINE went wandering o'er the ground, 
^jl Half-choked with weeds, oft smeared with dust; 

Chance dews it turned to mould and rust, 
And nought hut leaves was on it found; 

Till in its path an Oak-tree stood, 

And round his trunk it skyward twined, 
To learn that oaks were strong and kind, 

And feel that higher air was good. 

Yet all its hliss it could not know, 

Till — helped by timely suns and showers — 
Its fair new life burst forth in flowers, 

And tiny fruit began to show. 

The spheres expanded hour by hour, 
The green through pink to purple grew, 
And, borne on every breeze that blew, 

The fragrance sweetened wold and bower. 

Yet never boasted once the vine, — 

"This is my doing; come and see!" 

But to the Oak clung gratefully, 
And whispered, — "Be the glory thine! 



TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 195 

"For had'st thou left me to my will; 

My devious path, my careless ways, 

My scanty share of dews and rays, 
I should be wandering worthless still." 

part n. 

Sun after sun brings vintage-time. 

The Vine is left all brown and bare,— 

Naked — to meet a chillier air, 
Empty — to dream of vanished prime. 

"Bereaved! bereaved!" she moans dismayed, — 

"My very life-blood slow withdrawn! 

And every day a later dawn, 
And every night a longer shade! 

"What boots it from that hapless past 
To climb to higher air and worth, 
And gracious bloom and fruit bring forth, 

Since to this blank all comes at last? 

"If bliss be open door to pain, 

If most they lose who most possess, 

No more I ask for happiness, — 
Give back my ignorance again!" 

"Nay," said the Oak, "not for thine own, 

But others' weal, thou bearest fruit; 

Thy gain is in thy deeper root, 
In twining branches stronger grown; 



196 TKEASUKES EKOM THE POETIC WOELD, 

And richer store of sap to thrill 
Into new fruitage year by year. 
And though the Wintry days be drear, 

Does not my strength support thee still?" 



Only a Letter. 

/ljNLY a letter that came last night, 

\Zy A dear, little love-bird, winged with white, 

That whispered the words in a maiden's ear 

Of the sweetest song that a maid could hear. 

And sang it over and over again, 

Aye! the charmed din, and the soft refrain, 

And the burden was this — so old, so new, 

"Do you love me as J love you?" 

Only a letter, by Cupid sent, 
That maketh the maiden's heart content, 
That bringeth the blushes sweet and shy, 
And the tell-tale light to her azure eye! 
A missive read in the shadiest nook 
And dearer far than the choicest book, 
Then hid with the precious things and few, 
Tied with a band of love's own blue/ 



TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 197 

Only a letter that came this morn 

With the heaviest weight that could be borne, 

And yet it seemed, to the man in gray, 

But a trifle light as he passed his way. 

A wife is stunned by the sudden blow, 

A mother's heart is filled with woe, 

For the bird of omen tells a tale 

That would make the stoutest spirit quail. 

Only a letter, thin and white, 

That has robbed a home of its joy and light, 

That has hung, by the cruel news it bore, 

The funereal crape on the outer door! 

A missive clutched with hopes and fears, 

And drenched with the mourner's scalding tears; 

Eead and re-read, with lips grown white, 

Then laid, with a shudder, out of sight! 

Oh! news of joy! Oh! news of pain! 

Ye are mingled here like the sun and rain! 

And joyous hearts in this world below 

Must sometime feel the weight of woe! 

Eing on, sweet wedding-bells to-day! 

And fresh young hearts be glad and gay; 

It is time enough to think of ill 

When our light is dimmed by the Father's will. 



198 TREASUKES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 



ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. 



Elizabeth Barrett Browning was born in London 
in 1809, and she died at her home in Italy, June 29, 
1861. Her father, Mr. Barrett, was an English coun- 
try gentleman. Being wealthy, he was enabled to give 
Miss Barrett a fine classical education. 

At the age of seventeen she published the Essay on 
Mind, and other Poems. In 1838, she published The Ser- 
aphim, and other Poems, and in 1839, she appeared in The 
Romance of the Page. The Drama of Exile, containing 
many fine passages, Aurora Leigh, probably her greatest 
poem, Cowper's. Grave, A Child Asleep, He Giveth His 
Beloved Sleep, are among her excellent poems. Her sus- 
tained eloquence and originality, together with a peculiar 
tenderness which breathes through her writings, makes 
her the most distinguished poetess England has ever 
produced. 

In her thirty-seventh year, Miss Barrett became the 
wife of Kobert Browning, a poet both original and intel- 
lectual. The union was a fortunate one. The happy couple 
took up their home beneath the sunny skies of Italy. 
In person, she is described by her intimate friend, Miss 
Mitford, as a "slight, delicate figure, with a shower of 



TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 199 

dark curls falling on each side of a most expressive 
face, large tender eyes, richly fringed by dark eye-lashes, 
and a smile like a sunbeam." Added to her poor 
health, she met with several calamities, such as the 
bursting of a blood vessel in her lungs, which endan- 
gered her life, and the loss of her favorite brother and 
two friends by the sinking of a small pleasure boat. 
Thase accidents were followed by many years of seclu- 
sion. They also gave the impress of deep and melan- 
choly thought to many of her poems. In front of her 
home in Italy, Florence has placed a marble tablet as 
a memorial. It records that within the house "wrote 
and died Elizabeth Barrett Browning, who, by her songs, 
created a golden link between Italy and England." 




200 TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 



Ccwper's Grave. 

T is a place where poets crowned may feel the hearts' decay- 
ing— 

It is a place where happy saints may weep amid their praying: 
Yet let the grief and humbleness, as low as silence languish! 
Earth surely now may give her calm to whom she gave her 
anguish. 

poets! from a maniac's tongue was poured the deathless sing- 
ing! 

Christians! at your cross of hope a hopeless hand was cling- 
ing! 

O men! this man in brotherhood your weary paths beguiling, 

G-roaned inly while he taught you peace, and died while ye were 
smiling! 

And now, what time ye all may read through dimming tears his 

story, 
How discord on the music fell, and darkness on the glory, 
And how, when, one by one, sweet sounds and wandering lights 

departed, 
He wore no less a loving face because so broken-hearted. 

He shall be strong to sanctify the poet's high vocation; 
And bow the meekest Christian down in meeker adoration; 



TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 201 

Nor ever shall he be, in praise, by wise or good forsaken, 
Named softly as the household name of one whom God hath 
taken. 

With quiet sadness and no gloom I learn to think upon him, 
With meekness that is gratefulness to God whose heaven hath 

won him — 
Who suffered once the madness-cloud to His own love to blind 

him, 
But gently led the blind along where breath, and bird could find 

him; 

And wrought within his shattered brain, such quick poetic senses 
As hills have language for, and star, harmonious influences! 
The pulse of dew upon the grass kept his within its number, 
And silent shadow from the trees refreshed him like a slumber. 

Wild timid hares were drawn from woods to share his home- 
caresses, 

Uplooking to his human eyes with sylvan tendernesses; 

The very world, by God's constraint, from falsehood's ways 
removing, 

Its women and its men became beside him true and loving. 

But while in blindness he remained unconscious of the guiding, 
And things provided came without the sweet sense of providing, 
He testified this solemn truth through phrenzy desolated — 
Nor man nor nature satisfy, whom only God created! 

Like a sick child that knoweth not his mother whilst she blesses, 
And drops upon his burning brow the coolness of her kisses; 



202 TEEASUEES EEOM THE POETIC WOELD. 

That turns his fevered eyes around — "My mother! where's my 

mother?"— 
As if such tender words and looks could come from any other! 

The fever gone, with leaps of heart he sees her bending o'er 

him, 
Her face all pale from watchful love, the unweary love she bore 

him! — 
Thus woke the poet from the dream his life's long fever gave 

him, 
Beneath those deep pathetic Eyes, which closed in death to save 

him! 

Thus? oh, not thus! no type of earth could image that awaking, 
Wherein he scarcely heard the chant of seraphs round him 

breaking, 
Or felt the new immortal throb of soul from body parted, 
But felt those eyes alone, and knew, "My Savior! not deserted!" 

Deserted! who hath dreamt that when the cross in darkness 

rested 
Upon the Victim's hidden face no love was manifested! 
"What frantic hands outstretched have e'er the atoning drops 

averted? 
What tears have washed them from the soul, that one should 

be deserted? 

Deserted! God could separate from His own essence rather; 
And Adam's sins have swept between the righteous son and 
Father; 



TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 203 

Yea, once, Immanuel's orphaned cry his universe hath shaken — 
It went up single, echoless, "My God, I am forsaken!" 

It went up from the Holy's lips amid his lost creation, 

That, of the lost, no son should use those words of desolation, 

That earth's worst phrenzies, marring hone, should mar not 

hope's fruition, 
And I, on Cowper's grave, should see his rapture in a vision! 



Victoria's Tears. 



["When the Princess Victoria was first informed that she was Queen of 
Great Britain, she was so affected by the responsibilities of her new posi- 
tion, that she burst into tears." ] 



u # 



MAIDEN, heir of kings, 
A king has left his place; 
The Majesty of death has swept 

All other from his face. 
And thou, upon thy mother's breast 

No longer lean adown — 
But take the glory for the rest, 
And rule the land that loves thee best." 
The maiden wept; 
She wept to wear a crown! 



204 • TREASURES FKOM THE POETIC WORLD. 

They decked her courtly halls — 

They reined her hundred steeds — 
They shouted at her palace gate, 

"A noble Queen succeeds!" 
Her name has stirred the mountains' sleep, 

Her praise has rilled the town: 
And mourners God had stricken deep 
Looked hearkening up, and did not weep! 
Alone she wept, 

Who wept to wear a crown. 

She saw no purple shine, 

For tears had dimmed her eyes: 
She only knew her childhood's flowers 

"Were happier pageantries! 
And while the heralds played their part 

For million shouts to drown — 
"God save the Queen," from hill to mart — 
She heard, through all, her beating heart, 
And turned and wept! 

She wept to wear a crown. 



God save thee, weeping Queen! 

Thou shalt be well beloved, 
The tyrant's scepter cannot move 

As those pure tears have moved; 
The nature in thine eye we see, 

Which tyrants cannot own — 
The love that guardeth liberties; 



TREASURES PROM THE POETIC WORLD. 205 

Strange blessing on the nation lies 
Whose sovereign wept, 
Yea, wept, to wear its crown. 

God bless thee, weeping Queen, 

With blessing more divine; 

And fill with better love than earth's 

That tender heart of thine; 
That when the thrones of earth shall be 

As low as graves brought down, 
A pierced hand may give to thee 
The crown which angels wept to see. 
Thou wilt not weep 

To wear that heavenly crown. 




When We Two Parted. 



HEN we two parted 
In silence and tears, 
Half broken hearted 
To sever for years, 
Pale grew thy cheek and cold, 

Colder thy kiss; 
Truly that hour foretold 
Sorrow to this. 



206 TREASUBES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 

i The dew of the morning 

Sank chill on my brow — 
It felt like the warning 

Of what I feel now. 
Thy vows are all broken, 

And light is thy fame; 
I hear thy name spoken, 

And share in its shame. 

They name thee before me, 

A knell to my ear; 
A shudder comes o'er me — 

Why wert thou so dear? 
They knew not I knew thee 

Who knew thee too well: — 
Long, long shall I rue thee, 

Too deeply to tell. 

In secret we met — 

In silence I grieve, 
That thy heart could forget, 

Thy spirit deceive. 
If I should meet thee 

After long years, 
How should I greet thee? — 

With silence and tears. 



TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 207 



Fare Thee Well. 

d LABE thee well! and if forever, 
" I Still for ever, fare thee well; 
Even though unforgiving, never 
'Gainst thee shall my heart rebel. 

Would that breast were bared before thee, 
Where thy head so oft hath lain, 

While that placid sleep came o'er thee, 
Which thou ne'er canst know again: 

Would that breast, by thee glanced over, 
Every inmost thought could show! 

Then thou wouldst at last discover 
'Twas not well to spurn it so. 

Though the world for this commend thee — 
Though it smile upon the blow, 

Even its praises must offend thee, 
Founded on another's woe: 

Although my many faults defaced me, 

Could no other arm be found 
Than the one which once embraced me, 

To inflict a cureless wound? 



208 TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 

Yet, oh yet, thyself deceive not: 

Love may sink by slow decay, 
But by sudden wrench, believe not 

Hearts can thus be torn away; 

Still thine own its life retaineth — 

Still must mine, though bleeding, beat; 

And the undying thought which paineth 
Is — that we no more may meet. 

These are words of deeper sorrow 

Than the wail above the dead; 
Both shall live, but every morrow 

Wake us from a widowed bed. 

And when thou wouldst solace gather, 

When our child's first accents flow, 
Wilt thou teach her to say "Father!" 

Though his care she must forego? 

When her little hands shall press thee, 

When her lip to thine is pressed, 
Think of him whose prayer shall bless thee- 

Think of him thy love had blessed! 

. 
Should her lineaments resemble 

Those thou never more mayst see, 
Then thy heart will softly tremble 

With a pulse yet true to me. 



TREASURES PROM THE POETIC WORLD. 209 

All my faults, perchance, thou knowest, 

Ail my madness none can know; 
All my hopes, where'er thou goest, 

Whither, yet with thee they go! 

Every feeling hath been shaken, 

Pride, which not a world could bow, 
Bow to thee — by thee forsaken, 

Even my soul forsakes me now: 

But 'tis done — all words are idle — 

Words from me are vainer still; 
But the thoughts we cannot bridle, 

Force their way without the will. 

Fare thee well! — thus disunited, 

Torn from every nearer tie; 
Seared in heart, and lone and blighted 

More than this I scarce can die! 




210 TEEASUEES FEOM THE POETIC WOELD. 



# 



The Sabbath. 

OW still the morning of the hallowed day! 

Mute is the voice of rural labor, hushed 
The ploughboy's whistle, and the milkmaid's song. 
The scythe lies glittering in the dewy wreath 
Of tedded grass, mingled with fading flowers 
The yester-morn bloomed waving in the breeze; 
Sounds the most faint attract the ear; — the hum 
Of early bee, the trickling of the dew, 
The distant bleating, mid-way up the hill. 
Calmness sits throned on yon unmoving cloud. 
To him, who wanders o'er the upland leas, 
The blackbird's note comes mellower from the dale, 
And sweeter from the sky the gladsome lark 
"Warbles his heaven-tuned song; the lulling brook 
Murmurs more gently down the deep-worn glen; 
While from yon lowly roof, whose curling smoke 
O'ermounts the mist, is heard, at intervals, 
The voice of psalms, the simple song of praise. 
With dove-like wings, peace o'er yon village broods: 
The dizzying mill-wheel rests; the anvil's din 
Hath ceased, all, all around is quietness. 
Less fearful on this day, the limping hare 
Stops, and looks back, and stops, and looks on man, 
Her deadliest foe. The toilsome horse set free, 
Unheedful of the pasture, roams at large; 



TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 211 

And, as his stiff unwieldy bulk he rolls, 

His iron-armed hoofs gleam in the morning ray. 

But chiefly Man the day of rest enjoys. 

Hail, Sabbath! thee I hail, the poor man's day. 

On other days, the man of toil is doomed 

To eat his joyless bread, lonely; the ground 

Both seat and board; screened from the Winter's cold, 

And Summer's heat, by neighboring hedge or tree; 

But on this day, embosomed in his home, 

He shares the frugal meal with those he loves; 

With those he loves he shares the heart-felt joy 

Of giving thanks to God, — not thanks of form, 

A word and a grimace, but reverently, 

With covered face and upward earnest eye. 

Hail, Sabbath! thee I hail, the poor man's day. 

The pale mechanic now has leave to breathe 

The morning air, pure from the city's smoke; 

While wandering slowly up the river side, 

He meditates on Him whose power he marks 

In each green tree, that proudly spreads the bough, 

As in the tiny dew-bent flowers that bloom 

Around its root; and while he thus surveys, 

With elevated joy, eaoh rural charm, 

He hopes, yet fears presumption in the hope, 

That Heaven may be one Sabbath without end. 




212 TEEASUEES EEOM THE POETIC WOELD. 



i: 



My Own Fireside. 

ET others seek for empty joys, 
At ball or concert, rout or play; 
Whilst, far from fashion's idle noise, 

Her gilded domes, and trappings gay, 
I while the wintry eve away, — 

'Twixt book and lute the hours divide, 
And marvel how I e're could stray 
From thee — my own Fireside! 

My own Fireside! Those simple words 

Can bid the sweetest dreams arise! 
Awaken feeling's tenderest chords, 

And feel with tears of joy mine eyes ! 
What is there my wild heart can prize, 

That doth not in thy sphere abide, 
Haunt of my home-bred sympathies, 

My own — my own Fireside! 

A gentle form is near me now; 

A smal] white hand is clasped in mine: 
I gaze upon her placid brow, 

And ask what joys can equal thine! 
A babe whose beauty's half divine, 

In sleep his mother's eyes doth hide; 
Where may love seek a fitter shrine 

Than thou — my own Fireside? 



TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 213 

What care I for the sullen roar 

Of winds without that ravage earth, 
It doth but bid me prize the more 

The shelter of thy hallowed hearth; — 
To thoughts of quiet bliss give birth: 

Then let the churlish tempest chide, 
It cannot check the blameless mirth 

That glads my own Fireside! 

My refuge ever from the storm 

Of this world's passion, strife, and care; 
Though thunder- clouds the sky deform, 

Their fury cannot reach me there, 
There all is cheerful, calm and fair; 

Wrath, Malice, Envy, Strife, or Pride, 
Hath never made its hated lair 

By thee — my own Fireside! 

Thy precincts are a charmed ring, 

Where no harsh feeling dares intrude; 
Where life's vexations lose their sting; 

Where even grief is half subdued: 
And peace, the halcyon, loves to brood. 

Then let the pampered fool deride, 
I'll pay my debt of gratitude 

To thee — my own Fireside! 

Shrine of my household deities! 

Fair scene of home's unsullied joys! 
To thee my burthened spirit flies, 



21-4 TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 

When fortune frowns, or, care annoys: 
Thine is the bliss that never cloys; 

The smile whose truth hath oft been tried, 
What, then, are this world's tinsel toys 

To thee — my own Fireside! 

Oh, may the yearnings, fond and sweet, 

That bid my thoughts be all of thee, 
Thus ever guide my wandering feet 

To thy heart- soothing sanctuary! 
Whate'er my future years may be: 

Let joy or grief my fate betide; 
Be still an Eden bright to me 

My own — my own Fireside! 



The Song of the Shirt. 



^. 



ITH fingers weary and worn, 
With eyelids heavy and red, 
A woman sat in unwomanly rags, 
Plying her needle and thread — 
Stitch — stitch — stitch ! 
In poverty, hunger, and dirt, 

And still with a voice of dolorous pitch 
She sang the "Song of the Shirt!" 



TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 215 

" Work — work — work ! 
"While the cock is crowing aloof; 

And work — work — work! 
Till the stars shine through the roof; 
It's oh, to he a slave! 

Along with the barbarous Turk, 
Where woman has never a soul to save, — ■ 

If this is Christian work! 

" Work — work — work ! 
Till the brain begins to swim; 

Work — work — work ! 
Till the eyes are heavy and dim! 
Seam, and gusset, and band, — 

Band, and gusset, and seam, 
Till over the buttons I fall asleep, 

And sew them on in a dream! 

"Oh! men with Sisters dear! 

Oh! men with Mothers and Wives! 
It is not linen you're wearing out, 

But human creatures' lives! 
Stitch — stitch — stitch ! 

In poverty, hunger, and dirt, 
Sewing at once with a double thread, 

A shroud as well as a Shirt! 

"But why do I talk of Death! 

That phantom of grisly bone, 
I hardly fear his terrible shape, 

It seems so like my own — 



216 TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 

It seems so like ray own, 
Because of the fasts I keep; 
God! that bread should be so dear, 
And flesh and blood so cheap! 

"Work — work — work ! 

My labor never flags; 
And what are its wages? A bed of straw, 

A crust of bread — and rags, — 
That shattered roof, — and this naked floor, — 

A table, — a broken chair, — 
And a wall so blank, my shadow I thank 

For sometimes falling there. 

"Work — work — work ! 
From weary chime to chime, 

Work — work — work ! 
As prisoners work for crime! 

Band, and gusset, and seam, 

Seam, and gusset, and band, 
Till the heart is sick, and the brain benumbed, 

As well as the weary hand. 

' ' Work — work — work ! 
In the dull December light, 

And work — work — work ! 
When the weather is warm and bright — 
While underneath the eaves 

The brooding swallows cling, 






TREASUBES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 217 

As if to show me their sunny backs 
And twit me with the Spring. 

"Oh! but to breathe the breath 
Of the cowslip and primrose sweet — 

With the sky above my head, 
And the grass beneath my feet ! 
For only one short hour 

To feel as I used to feel, 
Before I knew the woes of want 

And the walk that costs a meal! 

"Oh! but for one short hour, 

A respite, however brief! 
No blessed leisure for Love or Hope, 

But only time for Grief! 
A little weeping would ease my heart, 

But in their briny bed 
My tears must stop, for every drop 

Hinders needle and thread!" 

"With fingers weary and worn, 

With eyelids heavy and red, 
A woman sat in unwomanly rags, 

Plying her needle and thread — 
Stitch — stitch — stitch ! 

In poverty, hunger, and dirt, 
And still with a voice of dolorous pitch, — 
(Would that its tone could reach the Eich!) 

She sang this "Song of the Shirt!" 



218 TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 



The Bay of Seven Islands, 



t 



HE skipper sailed out of the harbor mouth, 

Leaving the apple-bloom of the South 
For the ice of the Eastern seas, 
In his fishing schooner Breeze. 



Handsome and brave and young was he, 
And the maidens of Newbury sighed to see 

His lessening white sail fall 

Under the sea's blue wall. 

Through the Northern Gulf and the misty screen 
Of the isles of Mingan and Madeleine, 

St. Paid' s and Blanc Sablon, 

The little Breeze sailed on. 

Backward and forward along the shore 
Of wild and desolate Labrador, 

And found at last her way 

To the Seven Islands Bay. 

The little hamlet, nestling below 
Great hills white with lingering snow, 
With its tin-roofed chapel, stood 
Half hid in the dwarf spruce wood; 



TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 219 

Green-turfed, flower-sown, the last outpost 
Of summer upon the dreary coast, 

With its gardens small and spare, 

Sad in the frosty air. 

Hard by where the skipper's schooner lay, 
A fisherman's cottage looked away 

Over isle and bay, and behind 

On mountains dim-defined. 

And there twin sisters, fair and young, 
Laughed with their stranger guest, and sung 

In their native tongue the lays 

Of the old Provencal days. 

Alike were they save the faint outline 
Of a scar on Suzette's forehead fine; 

And both, it so befell, 

Loved the heretic stranger well. 

Both were pleasant to look upon, 

But the heart of the skipper clave to one; 

Though less by his eye than heart 

He knew the twain apart. 

Despite of alien race and creed, 

Well did his wooing of Marguerite speed; 

And the mother's wrath was vain 

As the sister's jealous pain. 






220 TEEASUEES FEOM THE POETIC WOELD. 

The shrill-tongued mistress her house forbade, 
And solemn warning was sternly said 

By the black-robed priest, whose word 

As law the hamlet heard. 

But half by voice and half by signs 
The skipper said: "A warm sun shines 

On the green-banked Merrimac; 

Wait, watch, till I come back. 

"And when you see, from my mast-head, 
The signal fly of a 'kerchief red, 

My boat on the shore shall wait; 

Come, when the night is late." 

Ah! weighed with childhood's haunts and friends, 
And all that the home sky overbends 

Did ever young love fail 

To turn the trembling scale? 

Under the night, on the wet sea sands, 
Slowly unclasped their plighted hands; 

One to the cottage hearth, 

And one to his sailor's berth. 

What was it the parting lovers heard? 

Nor leaf, nor ripple, nor wing of bird, 
But a listener's stealthy tread, 
On the rock-moss, crisp and dead. 



TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 221 

He weighed his anchor, and fished once more, 
By the black coast-line of Labrador, 

And by love and the north winds driven, 

Sailed back to the Islands Seven. 

In the sunset's glow the sisters twain 
Saw the Breeze come sailing in again; 

Said Suzette: "Mother dear, 

The heretic's sail is here." 

"Go, Marguerite, to your room, and hide; 
Your door shall be bolted!" the mother cried; 

While Suzette, ill at ease, 

Watched the red sign of the Breeze. 

At midnight, down to the waiting skiff 
She' stole in the shadow of the cliff ; 

And out of the Bay's mouth ran 

The schooner with maid and man. 

And all night long, on a restless bed, 
Her prayers to the Virgin Marguerite said: 

And thought of her lover's pain, 

Waiting for her in vain. 

******* 

But when she saw, through the misty pane, 
The morning break on a sea of rain, 

Could even her love avail 

To follow his vanished sail! 



222 TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 

Meantime, the Breeze, with favoring wind, 
Left the rugged Moisic hills behind, 

And heard from an unseen shore 

The falls of Manitou roar. 

On the morrow's morn in the thick, gray weather 
They sat on the reeling deck together, 

Lover and counterfeit 

Of hapless Marguerite. 

With a lover's hand from her forehead fair 
He smoothed away her jet-black hair. 

What was it his fond eyes met? 

The scar of the false Suzette! 

Fiercely he shouted: "Bear away 
East by north for Seven Isles Bay!" 

The maiden wept and prayed, 

But the ship her helm obeyed. 

Once more the Bay of the Isles they found; 

They heard the bell of the chapel sound, 
And the chant of the dying sung 
In the harsh, wild Indian tongue. 

A feeling of mystery, change and awe 
Was in all they heard and all they saw; 

Spell-bound the hamlet lay 

In the hush of its lonely bay. 



TEEASUEES FEOM THE POETIC WOELD. 223 

And when they came to the cottage door, 
The mother rose from her weeping sore, 

And with angry gestures met 

The scared look of Suzette. 

"Here is your daughter," the skipper said, 
"Give me the one I love instead." 

But the woman sternly spake: 

"Go, see if the dead will wake!" 

He looked. Her sweet face still and white 
And strange in the noonday taper light, 

She lay on her little bed, 

With the cross at her feet and head. 

In a passion of grief the strong man bent 
Down to her face, and kissing it, went 

Back to the waiting Breeze, 

Back to the mournful seas. 

Never again to the Merrimac 

And Newbury's homes that bark came back. 

Whether her fate she met 

On the shores of Carraquette, 

Miscou, or Tracadie, who can say? 
But feven yet at Seven Isles Bay 

Is told the ghostly tale 

Of a weird, unspoken sail, 



224 TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 

In the pale, sad light of Northern day 
Seen by the blanketed Montagnais, 

Or squaw, in her small kyack, 

Crossing the specter's track. 

On the deck a maiden wrings her hands; 

Her likeness kneels on the gray coast sands; 
One in her wild despair, 
And one in the trance of prayer. 

She flits before no earthly blast, 
With the red sign fluttering from her mast, 
Over the solemn seas, — 
The ghost of the schooner Breeze! 



The First Gray Hair. 

I HE matron at her mirror, with her hand upon her brow, 
^ Sits gazing on her lovely face — ay, lovely even now: 

Why doth she lean upon her hand with such a look of care? 

Why steals that tear across her cheek? — She sees her first gray 
hair. 

Time from her form hath ta'en away but little of its grace; 
His touch of thought hath dignified the beauty of her face; 



TREASURES FROM THE TOETIC WORLD. 225 

Yet she might mingle in the dance where maidens gaily trip, 
So bright is still her hazel eye, so beautiful her lip. 

The faded form is often mark'd by sorrow more than years; 
The wrinkle on the cheek may be the course of secret tears; 
The mournful lip may murmur of a love it ne'er confest, 
And the dimness of the eye betray a heart that cannot rest. 

But she hath been a happy wife; — the lover of her youth 
May proudly claim the smile that pays the trial of his truth; 
A sense of slight — of loneliness — hath never banished sleep; 
Her life hath been a cloudless one; — then, wherefore doth she 
weep? 

She look'd upon her raven locks; — what thoughts did they re- 
call? 

Oh! not of nights when they were deck'd for banquet or for 
ball,— 

They brought back thoughts of early youth, e'er she had learnt 
to check, 

With artificial wreaths, the curls that sported o'er her neck. 

She seemed to feel her mother's hand pass lightly through her 

hair, 
And draw it from her brow, to leave a kiss of kindness there; 
She seem'd to view her father's smile, and feel the playful touch 
That sometimes feign'd to steal away the curls she prized so 
much. 

And now she sees her first gray hair! oh, deem it not a crime 
For her to weep — when she beholds the first footmark of Time! 
15 



226 TEEAS'URES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 

She knows that, one by one, those mute mementos will in- 
crease, 

And steal youth, beauty, strength away, till life itself shall 
cease. 

'Tis not the tear of vanity for beauty on the wane — 

Yet though the blossom may not sigh to bud, and bloom again, 

It cannot but remember with a feeling of regret, 

The spring for ever gone — the summer sun so nearly set. 

Ah, Lady! heed the monitor! Thy mirror tells the truth; 
Assume the matron's folded veil, resign the wreath of youth; 
Go! — bind it on thy daughter's brow, in her thou 'It still look 

fair; 
'Twere well would all learn wisdom who behold the first gray 

hair! 



Untimely Gathered. 

A\ FAINTEST ripple breaking on the dim 

VE' And utmost shore of life! — 

And wert thou all unconscious of the din 

Of outward storm and strife? 
little heart, now lying still and cold, 

That beat ere while with mine, — 



TEEASUEES FEOM THE POETIC WOELD. 227 

tiny hands, that lost your feeble hold 

On life, and made no sign! 
little heart, lying so cold and still, — 

And wilt thou never know 
How other hearts thy wavering pulses thrilled 

With their soft ebb and flow? 
How echoes from the future, sweet and far, 

With every stroke kept time; 
And how the tender light of Hope's fair star 

Died one with their low chime? 
little soul, while love and mystery 

Built thee a fabric bright, 
Wert thou not waiting for it patiently 

Beside the gates of light? 
And didst thou, turning back, grieve sadly o'er 

Thy lost and ruined shrine? 
And now, oh, wilt thou not for evermore 

Be lost for me and mine? 
Or will the little form, unfinished here, 

Be perfected for thee, 
And still retain in its bright home afar 

Dim memories of me? 
Why are the yearnings of a mother's heart 

So deathless and so strong? 
Why must the life, of which thou wast a part, 

Cherish the dreams so long, 
If it be naught beside? It can not be; 

Thus much we know, — 
Although we can not pierce God's mystery, 

He sends not fruitless woe. 



228 TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 

Those little sinless feet, undoomed to try 

This rugged world of ours, 
Those tender, folded hands, unpierced by 

Its thorny flowers, 
May lead our thoughts above, and point the way; 

A bliss half given 
May be a link — lest they should turn astray — 

Between our hearts and heaven. 
Perhaps we need this bitter drop within 

Life's too alluring cup; 
This our white lamb, a sacrifice for sin, 

Our hearts must offer up; 
Who knows but those dumb lips and sealed eyes, 

"With eloquence unknown 
On earth, may plead for us in Paradise, 

Beside the golden throne? 
This folded bud, which, cherished on our breast, 

Might gather blight or stain, 
In heaven may bloom more brightly than the rest, 

And be our own again. 
Howe'er it be, our hearts may not rebel, 

E'en though we grieve, 
We know but this, — "He doeth all things well." 

We trust and we believe. 



^■$$$r'^ 



TBEASUBES FKOM THE POETIC WOELD. 229 



The Dying Alchemist. 

tHE night wind with a desolate moan swept by; 
And the old shutters of the turret swung 
Screaming upon their hinges; and the moon, 
As the torn edges of the clouds flew past, 
Struggled aslant the stained and broken panes 
So dimly, that the watchful eye of death 
Scarcely was conscious when it went and came. 
The fire beneath his crucible was low; 
Yet still it burned; and ever as his thoughts 
Grew insupportable, he raised himself 
Upon Ins wasted arm, and stirred the coals 
With difficult energy; and when the rod 
Fell from his nerveless fingers, and his eye 
Felt faint within its socket, he shrunk back 
Upon his pallet, and with unclosed lips 
Muttered a curse on death! The silent room, 
From its dim corners, mockingly gave back 
His rattling breath; the humming in the fire 
Had the distinctness of a knell; and when 
Duly the antique horologe beat one, 
He drew a phial from his breast, 
And drank. And instantly his lips compressed, 
And, with a shudder in his skeleton frame, 
He rose with supernatural strength, and sat 
Upright, and communed with himself: — 






230 TREASURES EROM THE POETIC WORLD. 

I did not think to die 
Till I had finished what I had to do; 
I thought to pierce th' eternal secret through 

With this my mortal eye; 
I felt — God! it seemeth even now 
This can not be the death-dew on my brow. 

And yet it is — I feel 
Of this dull sickness at my heart, afraid; 
And in my eyes the death-sparks flash and fade; 
And something seems to steal 
Over my bosom like a frozen hand, 
Binding its pulses with an icy band. 

And this is death! But why 
Feel I this wild recoil? It cannot be 
The immortal spirit shuddereth to be free! 

"Would it not leap to fly, 
Like a chained eaglet at its parent's call? 
I fear — I fear — that this poor life is all. 

Yet thus to pass away! 
To live but for a hope that mocks at last; 
To agonize, to strive, to watch, to fast. 

To waste the light of day, 
Night's better beauty, feeling, fancy, thought, 
All that we have and are — for this — for nought! 

Grant me another year, 
God of my spirit! but a day, to win 



TBEASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 231 

Something to satisfy this thirst within. 
I would know something here. 
Break for me but one seal that is unbroken! 
Speak for me but one word that is unspoken! 

Vain, vain! my brain is turning 
With a swift dizziness, and my heart grows sick, 
And these hot temple-throbs come fast and thick, 

And I am freezing! burning, 
Dying! God! if I might only live! 
My phial — ha! it thrills me, I revive. 

Ay, were not man to die, 
He were too mighty for this narrow sphere. 
Had he but time to brood on knowledge here, 

Gould he but train his eye, 
Might he but wait the mystic word and hour, 
Only his Maker would transcend his power. 

Earth has no mineral strange, 
Th' inimitable air no hidden wings, 
Water no quality in covert springs, 

And fire no power to change; 
Seasons no mystery, and stars no spell, 
Which the unwasting soul might not compel. 

Oh, but for time to track 
The upper stars into the pathless sky, 
To see th' invisible spirits, eye to eye, 

To hurl the lightning back, 



232 TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 

To tread unhurt the sea's dim-lighted halls, 
To chase Day's chariot to the horizon walls, — 

And more, much more; for now 
The life-sealed fountains of my nature move, 
To nurse and purify this human love; 

To clear the godlike brow 
Of weakness and distrust, and bow it down, 
Worthy and beautiful, to the much-loved one. 

This were indeed to feel 
The soul-thirst slaken at the living stream; 
To live — God! that life is but a dream! 

And death — aha! I reel — 
Dim — dim — I faint! darkness comes o'er my eye. 
Cover me! save me. God of heaven! I die. 

'Twas morning, and the old man lay alone; 

No friend had closed his eyelids, and his lips, 

Open and ashy pale, th' expression wore 

Of his death struggle. His long, silvery hair 

Lay on his hollow temples thin and wild; 

His frame was wasted, and his features wan 

And haggard as with want, and in his palm 

His nails were driven deep, as if the throe 

Of the last agony had wrung him sore. 

The storm was raging still. The shutters swung, 

Screaming as harshly in the fitful wind, 

And all without went on, as aye it will, 

Sunshine or tempest, reckless that a heart 

Is breaking, or has broken, in its change. 



TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 233 

The fire beneath the crucible was out; 
The vessels of his mystic art lay round, 
Useless and cold as the ambitious hand 
That fashioned them, and the small rod, 
Familiar to his touch for three score years, 
Lay on th' alembic's rim, as if it still 
Might vex the elements at its master's will. 

And thus had passed from its unequal frame 
A soul of fire — a sun- bent eagle stricken 
From his high soaring down — an instrument 
Broken with its own compass. Oh, how poor 
Seems the rich gift of genius, when it lies, 
Like the adventurous bird that hath outflown 
His strength upon the sea, ambition-wrecked — 
A thing the thrush might pity, as she sits 
Brooding in quiet on her lowly nest! 




234 TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 



WILLIAM OULLEN BRYANT. 



William Cullen Bryant was born at Cummington, 
Mass., November 3, 1794, and he died June 12, 1878, 
in his eighty-fourth year. He was educated at Williams 
College. Bryant's precocity was very marked. At the 
age of ten he published translations from some of the 
Latin poets, and at thirteen he wrote a vigorous polit- 
ical poem, entitled The Embargo. At eighteen, his beau- 
tiful poem Thanatopsis was composed. At twenty-one, 
he was admitted to the bar, and, after several years 
of successful practice, removed to New York and en- 
tered upon his literary life. In 1826, Bryant became 
connected with The Neiv York Evening Post, where he 
continued to labor till his death. 

Besides his work as poet and journalist, he under- 
took, with Sydney Howard Gay, to prepare a Popular 
History of the United States, but died before its com- 
pletion. 

He is author of The Fountain and Other Poems, 
Letters of a Traveler in Europe and America, Thanatop- 
sis, Death of the Flowers, Forest Hymn, Waiting at the 
Gate, The Flood of Years, besides translations of the 
Iliad and Odyssey. 




WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 



TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 



235 



Bryant's literary life covers a period of sixty-four 
years, dating from Thanatopsis, written at eighteen, to 
The Flood of Years, written at eighty-two. 

He is master of blank verse, and "his diction is 
pure and lucid with scarcely a flaw." "Bryant's poetry 
overflows with natural religion — what Wordsworth calls 
the religion of nature," and always shows a pious and 
pure spirit. The following lines are from Thanatopsis: 



So live, that when thy summons comes to join 
The innumerable caravan that moves 
To that mysterious realm, where each shall take 
His chamber in the silent halls of death, 
Thou go not, like the quarry slave at night, 
Scourged to his dungeon; but, sustained and soothed 
By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave 
Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch 
About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams. 




236 TEEASUEES FEOM THE POETIC WOELD. 



An Evening Reverie. 

I HE summer day is closed, the sun is set; 

^ Well they have done their office, those bright hours, 
The latest of whose train goes softly out 
In the red West. The green blade of the ground 
Has risen, and herds have cropped it; the young twig 
Has spread its plaited tissues to the sun; 
Flowers of the garden and the waste have blown 
And withered; seeds have fallen upon the soil 
From bursting cells, and in their grave await 
Their resurrection. Insects from the pools 
Have filled the air awhile with humming wings, 
That now are still forever; painted moths 
Have wandered the blue sky, and died again; 
The mother-bird hath broken for her brood 
Their prison shell, or shoved them from the nest, 
Plumed for their earliest flight. In bright alcoves, 
In woodland cottages with barky walls, 
In noisome cells of tumultous towns, 
Mothers have clasped with joy the newborn babe. 
Graves by the lonely forest, by the shore 
Of rivers and of ocean, by the ways 
Of the thronged city, have been hollowed out 
And filled, and closed. This day hath parted friends 
That ne'er before were parted; it hath knit 
New fiiendships; it hath seen the maiden plight 



TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 237 

Her faith, and trust her peace to him who long 
Had wooed, and it hath heard, from lips which late 
Were eloquent with love, the first harsh word, 
That told the wedded one her peace was flown. 
Farewell to the sweet sunshine! One glad day- 
Is added now to childhood's merry days, 
And one calm day to those of quiet age. 
Still the fleet hours run on; and as I lean, 
Amid the thickening darkness, lamps are lit, 
By those who watch the dead, and those who twine 
Flowers for the bride. The mother from the eyes 
Of her sick infant shades the painful light, 
And sadly listens to his quick-drawn "breath, 

thou great movement of the universe, 

Or change or flight of time — for ye are one — 
That hearest silently this visible scene 
Into night's shadow and the streaming rays 
Of starlight, whither art thou bearing me? 

1 feel the mighty current sweep me on, 
Yet know not whither. Man foretells afar 
The courses of the stars; the very hour 

He knows when they shall darken or grow bright; 
Yet doth the eclipse of sorrow and of death 
Come unforwarned. Who next of those I love, 
Shall pass from life, or sadder yet, shaM fall 
From virtue? Strife with foes, or bitterer strife 
With friends, or shame and general scorn cf men — 
Which who can bear? — or the fierce rack of pain, — 
Lie they within my path? Or shall the years 
Push me, with soft and inoffensive pace, 



238 TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 

Into the stilly twilight of my age? 

Or do the portals of another life, 

Even now, while I am glorying in my strength, 

Impend around me? Oh, beyond the bourne, 

In the vast cycle of being which begins 

At that broad threshhold, with what fairer forms 

Shall the great law of change and progress clothe 

Its workings? Gently, so have good men taught, 

Into the new; the eternal flow of things^ 

Like a bright river of the fields of heaven, 

Shall journey onward in perpetual peace. 



Forest Hymn. 

tHE groves were God's first temples. Ere man learned 
To hew the shaft, and lay the architrave, 
And spread the roof above them, — ere he framed 
The lofty vault, to gather and roll back 
The sound of anthems, — in the darkling wood, 
Amid the cool and silence, he knelt down 
And offered to the Mightiest solemn thanks 
And supplication. Let me, then, at least, 
Here, in the shadow of this aged wood, 
Offer one hymn — thrice happy, if it find 
Acceptance in his ear. 



TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 239 

Father, thy hand 
Hath reared these venerable columns; thou 
Didst weave this verdant roof. Thou didst look down 
Upon the naked earth, and, forthwith, rose 
All these fair ranks of trees. They in thy sun 
Budded, and shook their green leaves in thy breeze, 
And shot toward heaven. The century-living crow 
Whose birth was in the tops, grew old and died 
Among their branches, — till, at last, they stood, 
As now they stand, massy, and tall, and dark, 
Fit shrine for humble worshiper to hold 
Communion with his Maker. These dim vaults, 
These winding aisles, of human pomp or pride 
Eeport not. No fantastic carvings show 
The boast of our vain race to change the form 
Of thy fair works. But thou art there; thou MTst 
The solitude; thou art in the soft winds 
That run along the summit of these trees 
In music; thou art in the cooler breath, 
That, from the inmost darkness of the place, 
Comes scarcely felt; the barky trunks, the ground, 
The fresh, moist ground, are all instinct with thee. 






240 TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD 



Beautiful Things. 

I BEAUTIFUL faces are those that wear- 
r/ It matters little if dark or fair — 
Whole-souled honesty printed there. 

Beautiful eyes are those that show, 

Like crystal panes where hearth-fires glow, 

Beautiful thoughts that burn below. 

Beautiful lips are those whose words 
Leap from the heart like songs of birds, 
Yet whose utterances prudence girds. 

Beautiful hands are those that do 

Work that is earnest, and brave, and true, 

Moment by moment, the long day through. 

Beautiful feet are those that go 
On kindly ministries to and fro — 
Down lowliest ways, if God wills so. 

Beautiful shoulders are those that bear 
Ceaseless burdens of homely care 
With patient grace and daily prayer. 

Beautiful lives are those that bless — 

Silent rivers of happiness, 

Whose hidden fountains but few may guess. 



TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 241 

Beautiful twilight, at set of sun, 
Beautiful goal, with race well won; 
Beautiful rest, with work well done. 

Beautiful graves, where grasses creep, 

Where brown leaves fall, where drifts He deep 

Over worn-out hands — Oh! beautiful sleep! 



The Orphans. 

I WO orphans were they; — one a girl 
T~ Upon whose rounded face 
Some nine short Springs, or more, had shed 
A meek and modest grace. 

Still fewer suns had tinged the brow 

And light locks of the other, 
Yet one same mournful aspect marked 

The sister and the brother. 

Homely and rude the garb they wore, 

Old nor over-warm; 
'Twas barely what sufficed to shield 

Their young backs from the storm. 

A rich man's child had scorned to don 
The blanket coarse and gray 

16 




242 TKEASUEES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 

That wrapped the young girl's flaxen head 
And hid its locks away. 

The kertle, too, was short and scant — 

One surely must be poor, 
And all unused to fashion's ways, 

Such garments to endure. 

The cap of fashion so uncouth; 

The heavy, clouted shoes; 
The coat and hose a world too wide — 

The meek alone would choose. 

Thus hand in hand, they paced the streets 
Of Hamburg's ancient town; 

The shortened day had fled away, 
The evening shades come down. 

Loud creaked the snow beneath their feet, 
And, drifting from the roof, 

Wove on their eyebrows and their hair 
A white and shining woof. 

From sill and cornice, long and white, 

The icicles hung down, 
While shrill and wild the wintry blast 

Swept piping through the town. 

The wanderers drew their garments close 

About the shivering form, 
And bravely clapped their naked hands 

And strove to keep them warm. 



TEEASUEES EEOM THE POETIC WOELD. 243 

Great lights shone out from stately rooms 

Across their way so drear, 
And hurrying men a moment paused 

To wonder who they were. 

In one proud mansion, broad and high, 
With a hearth-stone warm and bright, 

A lady by the window stood 
And gazed out on the night. 

Against the frosty pane she prest 

Her forehead smooth and high, 
And wondered who on such a night, 

There might be passing by. 

Her own slight shadow lay far out 

Athwart the lighted snow, 
And two fair children there gazed up, 

With large, sad eyes, below. 

Out to the door with hurrying feet 

And pitying heart she flew, 
And in beside the blazing hearth 

The weary wanderers drew. 

"Now who are you who roam the street 

On such a freezing night? 
Your robes are old, your hands are bare, 

Your hair with frost is white." 

"We are two orphans. Underneath 
The lonesome churchyard sod 



244 TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 

Our parents sleep — and people tell 
That they're gone home to God. 

"We wander round from street to street 

Without a friend to say, 
'Poor children, come in with me and sit 

By my warm hearth to-day.' " 

Fast flowed the lady's tears, as thus 

The mournful tale she heard, 
And in her heart a troubled fount 

Of long-kept grief was stirred. 

"Poor little ones! God from earth has called 

Your parents to the sky, 
And where yon church-cross shadow falls 

All my fair children he. 

"So come and sit beside my hearth 
And slumber by my side, 
. For God has sent you to replace 
My little ones that died!" 







TEEASUEES FEOM THE POETIC WOELD. 245 



Toby's Supper. 

/fb WEAEY day had Toby had of it, 
^1' Driving the cows to pasture, putting up 
The bars behind them — bars that would not fit 

At either end, but down again would drop 
From out their rests, now one and then another, 
Till he grew hot and sweaty with the pother. 

Then there was weeding in the garden rows; 

And what young back was there so stout as his 
To stoop and pull the sly weeds, which the hoes 

Could not dislodge, or older eyes might miss, 
Beneath the tall corn hidden — though in truth 
Such groping labor did not please our youth. 

Yet on he worked like any little man; 

Stopping at times to fan his sweaty brow 
With his coarse poplar hat, or lift the can 

Of milk-and-water to his lips, or throw 
Himself beneath the shady apple-trees, 
To rest a moment in the cooling breeze. 

So went the day — but evening came at last; 

The cows were milked; the chickens had been fed 
With curds and crumbs — a very choice repast 

For feathered infants — and had gone to bed 



246 TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 

Beneath their good, old mother's brooding wings, 
And closed their eyes on sublunary things, — 

Except a few poor fondling chicks — disowned 
By their unnatural parent, or mayhap 

Lost in some rash excursion — which run round 
Peeping for cold; these Toby in his hat 

Brought to the kitchen and gently lay 

In an old basket on some fresh, soft hay. 

All the tasks finished, tired as he could be 
He just dropt down like lead into his chair; 

His mother sat a basin on his knee 

Brim full of foaming milk — tossing his hair 

Back from his brow — and placed some meat and bread 

Beside, that he might eat and go to bed. 

And eat he did — for after so much work — 
Such driving cows and feeding chickens — he 

Was just as ravenous as any Turk; 

And the fresh milk, as sweet as it could be, 

Tasted so good, saying nothing of the matter 

Of meat and biscuit in the yellow platter! 

And so he ate, till from his listless hold, 
The spoon fell down upon the basin's side; 

The drowsy eyelids, like a curtain's fold 
Closed o'er his weary eyes; his head aside 

Boiled heavily, his chin upon his breast, 

Till every muscle slept and was at rest. 



TBEASUKES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 247 

Meanwhile, the chickens from the basket popped; 

To see what made the kitchen seem so still, 
And, seeing Toby nicely sleeping, hopped 

Upon the basin, dipping each a bill 
Into the milk, and turning up their eyes 
At every little mouthful to the skies. 

"Lord bless me! what a monstrous pity," thought 
The little house-dog watching Toby's sleep — 

"That this good supper almost all for nought 
Should be so nicely cooked! If I should keep 

What's left from spoiling, I am sure 'twould be 

Most excellent economy in me! 

"Besides 'twould save my mistress all the trouble 

Of giving me my supper on the floor; 
And so I think, considering the double 

Advantage it will be to all, before 
My master Toby wakes, I'll softly fish 
With this clean paw, his supper from the dish!" 

"Why, bless me, Toby!" on his sleeping ear 

His mother's merry voice a sudden beat; 
"What are you doing, drowsy sluggard here 
So sound asleep, while dog and chickens eat 
Your supper? Go to bed!" With a stupid gaze 
Poor Toby looked into the laughing face 
Bent over him, then yawned and scratched his head 
And, half-undressing, tumbled into bed! 



248 TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 



Hannah Jane. 

HE isn't half so handsome as when, twenty years agone, 
At her old home in Piketon, Parson Avery made us one; 
The great house crowded full of guests of every degree, 
The girls all envying Hannah Jane, the boys all envying me. 

Her fingers then were taper, and her skin as white as milk, 
Her brown hair, what a mass it was! and soft and fine as silk; 
No wind-moved willow by a brook had ever such a grace, 
Her form of Aphrodite, with a pure Madonna face. 

She had but meager schooling; her little notes to me 

Were full of little pot-hooks, and the worst orthography; 

Her "dear" she spelled with double e, and "kiss" with but one s; 

But when one's crazed with passion what's a letter more or less? 

She blundered in her writing, and she blundered when she spoke, 
And every rule of syntax, that old Murray made, she broke; 
But she was beautiful and fresh, and I — well, I was young; 
Her form and face o'erbalanced all the blunders of her tongue. 

I was but little better. True, I'd longer been at school; 
My tongue and pen were run, perhaps, a little more by rule; 
But that was all, the neighbors round who both of us well 

knew, 
Said, which I believed — she was the better of the two. 



TREASURES FKOM THE POETIC WORLD. 249 

All's changed; the light of seventeen's no longer in her eyes; 
Her wavy hair is gone — that loss the coiffeur's art supplies; 
Her form is thin and angular; she slightly forward bends; 
Her fingers once so shapely, now are stumpy at the ends. 

She knows but very little, and in little are we one; 

The beauty rare, that more than hid that great defect, is gone. 

My parvenu relations now deride my homely wife, 

And pity me that I am tied to such a clod for life. 

I know there is a difference; at reception and levee 
The brightest, wittiest, and most famed of women smile on me; 
And everywhere I hold my place among the greatest men; 
And sometimes sigh, with Whittier's judge, "Alas! it might have 
been." 

"When they all crowd around me, stately dames and brilliant 

belles, 
And yield to me the homage that all great success compels, 
Discussing art and statecraft, and literature as well, 
From Homer down to Thackeray, and Swedenborg on "hell," 

I can't forget that from these streams my wife has never quaffed, 
Has never with Ophelia wept, nor with Jack Falstaff laughed; 
Of authors, actors, artists — why, she hardly knows the names; 
fShe slept while I was speaking on the Alabama claims. 

I can't forget — just at this point another form appears — 
The wife I wedded as she was before my prosperous years; 
I travel o'er the dreary road we traveled side by side, 
And wonder what my share would be if Justice should divide! 



250 TEEASUEES FKOM THE POETIC WOELD. 

She had four hundred dollars left her from the old estate; 
On that we married, and, thus poorly armored, faced our fate. 
I wrestled with my hooks; her task was harder far than mine,- 
'Twas how to make two hundred dollars do the work of nine. 

At last I was admitted, then I had my legal lore, 

An office with a stove and desk, of books perhaps a score; 

She had her beauty and her youth, and some housewifely skill; 

And love for me and faith in me, and back of that a will. 

I had no friends behind me — no influence to aid; 
I worked and fought for every little inch of ground I made. 
And how she fought beside me! never woman lived on less; 
In two long years she never spent a single cent for dress. 

Ah! how she cried for joy when my first legal fight was won, 
When our eclipse passed partly by and we stood in the sun; 
The fee was fifty dollais — 'twas the work of half a year — 
First captive, lean and scraggy, of my legal bow and spear. 

I well remember when my coat (the only one I had,) 

Was seedy grown and threadbare, and in fact, most "shocking 

bad," 
The tailor's stern remark when I a modest order made: 
"Cash is the basis, sir, on which we tailors do our trade!" 

Her winter cloak was in his shop by noon that very day; 

She wrought on hickory shirts at night that tailor's skill to pay; 

I got a coat, and wore it; but alas, poor Hannah Jane 

Ne'er went to church or lecture till warm weather came again. 



TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 251 

Our second season she refused a cloak of any sort, 
That I might have a decent suit in which t' appear in court; 
She made her last year's bonnet do, that I might have a hat; 
Talk of the old-time flame-enveloped martyrs after that! 

No negro ever worked so hard, a servant's pay to save, 
She made herself most willingly a household drudge and slave. 
What wonder that she never read a magazine or book, 
Combining as she did in one, nurse, housemaid, seamstress, cook! 

What wonder that the beauty fled that I once so adored! 
Her beautiful complexion my fierce kitchen fire devoured; 
Her plump, fair, soft, rounded arm was once too fair to be con- 
cealed; 
Hard work for me that softness into sinewy strength congealed. 

I was her altar, and her love the sacrificial flame: 
Oh! with what pure devotion she to that altar came, 
And tearful flung thereon — alas! I did not know it then — 
All that she was, and more than that, all that she might have 
been; 

At last I won success. Ah! then our lives were wider parted; 
I was far up the rising road; she,»poor girl! where we started. 
I had tried my speed and mettle, and gained strength in every 

race; 
I was far up the heights of life — she drudging at the base. 

She made me take each Fall the stump; she said 'twas my ca- 
reer; 
The wild applause of list'ning crowds was music to my ear. 



252 TKEASUEES FKOM THE POETIC WOKLD. 

What stimulus had she to cheer her dreary solitude? 
For me she lived, and gladly, in unnatural widowhood. 

She couldn't read my speech, but when the papers all agreed 
'Twas the best one of the session, those comments she could 

read; 
And with a gush of pride thereat, which I had never felt, 
She sent them to me in a note with half the words misspelt. 

I to the legislature went, and said that she should go 
To see the world with me, and what the world was doing, know. 
With tearful smile she answered "No! four dollars is the pay; 
The Bates House rates for board for one is just that sum per 
day." 

At twenty-eight the State House, on the bench at thirty- three ; 

At forty every gate in life was opened wide to me. 

I nursed my powers, and grew, and made my point in life; but 

she — 
Bearing such pack-horse weary loads, what could a woman be? 

What could she be? shame! I blush to think what she has 

been — 
The most unselfish of all wives to the selfishest of men. 
Yes, plain and homely now she is; she's ignorant, 'tis true; 
For me she rubbed herself quite out; I represent the two. 

Well, I suppose that I might do as other men have done — 
First break her heart with cold neglect, then shove her out 
alone. 



TEEASUBES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 253 

The world would say 'twas well, and more, would give great 

praise to me 
For having borne with "such a wife" so uncomplainingly. 

And shall I? No! The contract 'twixt Hannah, G-od, and me, 

Was not for one or twenty years, but for eternity. 

No matter what the world may think; I know down in my 

heart, 
That if either, I'm delinquent. She has bravely done her part. 

There's another world beyond this, and on the final day, 
Will intellect and learning 'gainst such devotion weigh? 
When the great one, made of us two, is torn apart again, 
I'll fare the worst, for Grod is just, and He knows Hannah 
Jane. 




254 TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 



Not One Child to Spare. 

x HICH shall it be? Which shall it be?" 
I looked at John — John looked at me, 
(Dear, patient John, who loves me yet, 
As well as though my locks were jet,) 
And when I found that I must speak, 
My voice seemed strangely low and weak; 
"Tell me again what Eobert said!" 
And then I, listening, bent my head 
"This is his letter: — I will give 
A house and land while you shall live, 
If, in return, from out your seven, 
One child to me for aye is given." 
I looked at John's old garments worn, 
I thought of all that John had borne 
Of poverty, and work, and care, 
Which I, though willing, could not share; 
I thought of seven mouths to feed, 
Of seven little children's need, 
And then of this: — "Come, John," said I, 
"We'll choose among them as they he 
Asleep; so, walking hand in hand, 
Dear John and I surveyed our band — 
First to the cradle lightly stepped, 
Where Lilian, the baby, slept, 
A glory 'gainst the pillow white; 



TEEASUEES FEOM THE POETIC WOELD. 25i 

Softly the father stooped to lay 

His rough hand down in loving way, 

When dream or whisper made her stir, ' 

And husjdly he said, "Not her, not her." 

We stooped beside the trundle-bed, 

And one long ray of lamplight shed 

Athwart the boyish faces there, 

In sleep pitiful and fair; 

I saw on James' rough, red cheek 

A tear undried. Ere John could speak, 

"He's but a baby, too," said I, 

And kissed him as we hurried by. 

Pale, patient Robbie's angel face 

Still in his sleep bore suffering's trace. 

"No, for a thousand crowns, not him," 

He whispered, while our eyes were dim. 

Poor Dick! bad Dick! our wayward son, 

Turbulent, reckless, idle one — 

Could he be spared? "Nay, He who gave 

Bid us befriend him to his grave; 

Only a mother's heart can be 

Patient enough for such as he; 

And so," said John, "I would not dare 

To send him from her bedside prayer." 

Then stole we softly up above 

And knelt by Mary, child of love. 

"Perhaps for her 'twould better be," 

I said to John. Quite silently 

He lifted up a curl that lay 

Across her cheek in wilful way, 



256 TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 

And shook his head, "Nay, love, not thee." 
The while my heart beat audibly. 
Only one more, our eldest lad, 
Trusty and truthful, good and glad — 
So like his father. "No, John, no — 
I cannot, will not, let him go." 
And so we wrote, in a courteous way, 
We could not drive one child away; 
And afterward toil lighter seemed, 
Thinking of that of which we dreamed. 
Happy in truth that not one face 
Was missed from its accustomed place; 
Thankful to work for all the seven, 
Trusting the rest to One in heaven. 



The Turned Lesson, 

1 THOUGHT I knew it," she said: 
"I thought I had learned it quite!" 
But the gentle teacher shook her head, 

With a grave yet loving light 
In the eyes that fell on the upturned face, 

As she gave the book 
With the mark still set in the self- same place. 



TEEASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 257 

"I thought I knew it!" she said; 

And a heavy tear, fell down 
As she turned away with bending head; 

Yet not for reproof or frown, 
And not for the lesson to learn again, 

Or the play hour lost; — 
It was something else that gave the pain. 

She could not have put it in words, 

But her teacher understood, 
As God understands the chirp of the birds, 

In the depths of an autumn wood; 
And a quiet touch on the reddening cheek 

Was quite enough; 
No need to question, no need to speak. 

Then the gentle voice was heard, 

"Now I will try you again," 
And the lesson was mastered, every word, 

Was it not worth the pain? 
Was it not kinder the task to turn, 

Than to let it pass 
As a lost, lost leaf that she did not learn? 

Is it not often so? 

That we only learn in part, 
And the master's testing time may show 

That it was not quite "by heart." 
Then he gives, in his wise and patient grace, 

The lesson again, 
With the mark still set in the self- same place. 

17 



258 TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 

Only stay by his side 

Till the page is really known; 
It may be we failed because we tried 

To learn it all alone. 
And now that He would not let us lose 

One lesson of love 
(For He knows the loss), can we refuse? 

But oh! how could we dream 
That we knew it all so well, 

Beading so fluently^ as we deem 
"What we could not even spell? 

But oh! how could we grieve once more 
That patient One, 

"Who has turned so many a task before! 

That waiting One who now 

Is letting us try again; 
Watching us with the patient brow 

That wore the wreath of pain; 
Thoroughly teaching what he would teach, 

Line upon line, 
Thoroughly doing his work in each. 

Then let our hearts be still, 

Though our task be turned to-day, 

Oh! let Him teach us what he will, 
In His most gracious way, 

Till, sitting only at Jesus' feet, 
As we learn each line, 

The hardest is found all clear and sweet. 



TEEASUEES FEOM THE POETIC WOELD. 259 



Thought. 

I HOUGHT is deeper than all speech, 
^ Feeling deeper than all thought; 
Souls to souls can never teach 
What unto themselves was taught. 

We are spirits clad in veils; 

Man by man was never seen; 
All our deep communing fails 

To remove the shadowy screen. 

Heart to heart was never known; 

Mind with mind did never meet; 
We are columns left alone 

Of a temple once complete. 

Like the stars mat gem the sky, 
Far apart, though seeming near, 

In our light we scattered He; 
All is thus but starlight here. 

What is social company 

But a babbling Summer stream? 
What our wise philosophy 

But the glancing of a dream? 

Only when the sun of love 

Melts the scattered stars of thought, — 



260 



TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 



Only when we live above 

What the dim-eyed world has taught,- 

Only when our sculs are fed 

By the fount which gave them birth, 
And by inspiration led 

Which they never drew from earth, — 

We, like parted drops of rain, 
Swelling till they meet and run, 

Shall be all absorbed again, 
Melting, flowing into one. 




TBEASUKES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 261 



Fred's Jacket. 

£1 RED'S -jacket was new and ought to fit, 
f [ But something or other was wrong with it; 

And so last night, when fast asleep 

He lay in his bed, I took a peep 

At the little garment just to see, 

If I could, what the secret of it might be. 

'Twas a little sturdy, gray affair, 

Hung on the back of the rocking chair, 

While the rest of his clothes were strewed around. 

I took it. What do you think I found? 

What but pockets, which from the first 

I saw were full enough to burst. 

I emptied each one carefully. 
Freddie had treasures, as you shall see! 
A knife with a broken blade; and then 
A handful of marbles, eight or ten; 
A stick for a handle, on which to spin 
Gay bits of paper upon a pin; 

A chisel or some such useful tool; 
A bit of pencil, an empty spool; 
A watch that took no note of time, 
And a top long past its humming prime; 



262 



TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 



A whistle to help in making noise, 
And fragments of half-a-dozen toys. 

But more than of any other thing, 

I found that there were three kinds of string; 

There was pink, and yellow, and white and red, 

In all degrees from twine to thread, 

In tangles or knots or in a ball! 

What use has the little Fred for all? 

I gave one glance at the sleeping face, 
Then put each treasure again in place. 
The pockets bulged as I hung it there, 
So gray and sturdy, upon the chair, 
And I thought as I pondered over it, 
No wonder the jacket doesn't fit! 



Ita 



i 



L 



TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 263 



"The Children Laughed and Sang." 

jM T was in the chill December 
A\ That the Angel of Death came by, 
And he rustled his wings of darkness 

As he swept through the wintry sky. 
A household of happy creatures 

Dwelt quiet and free from care, 
And the angel stole in softly, 

And stood all silent there. 
But the children laughed and sang at their play; 
Never a fear nor a pang, had they. 

And the angel swiftly in silence 

Struck home the mortal blow 
And in the wintry morning 

He laid the father low: 
And wildly the sorrowful mother, 

Bewildered and stunned with woe, 
Wailed in her lone bereavement, 

And wished that she, too, might go! 
But the children laughed and sang at their play; 
Never a fear nor a pang had they. 

Cold in the lonely chamber 

Lay the father's form at rest, 
And they lay the delicate flower-wreaths 

Upon his quiet breast; 



264 TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 

And forth from his home they bore him 
And hid him from sound and sight; 

And they heaped the cold earth above him, 
While the children's feet trod light. 

But the boys went home to their happy play; 

Never a fear nor a pang had they. 

And often their childish footsteps 

Are turned to their father's grave 
Where the grass, with its glistening hoar-frost, 

Lies over that heart so brave; 
And sometimes they watched their mother 

Bending in sorrow and pain; 
And they say in their childish voices, 

"Will papa never come again?" 
But soon they laugh and sing at their play; 
Never a fear nor a pang have they. 

So God in his infinite pity 

Shut the eyes of the children dear, 
And they see not the fell destroyer, 

Though their eyes are so bright and clear. 
And I said, "There's no past for the children 

With its terrible pangs and stings; 
And for them no brooding future 

Spreadeth its threatening wings. 
AH they see is the present — to-day; 

And so they laugh and sing at their play." 



TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 2 65 

"Why the Dcg's Nose Is Always Cold." 

/-|A HAT makes the dog's nose always cold?" 
wrw I'll try to tell you, curls of gold, 

If you will good and quiet be, 

And come and stand by mamma's knee. 

Well, years, and years, and years ago — 

How many I don't really know — 

There came a rain on sea and shore ; 

Its like was never seen before 

Or since. It fell unceasing down, 

Till all the world began to drown. 

But just before it began to pour, 

An old, old man — his name was Noah — 

Built him an ark, that he might save 

His fam'ly from a wat'ry grave; 

And in it also he designed 

To shelter two of every kind 

Of beast. Well, dear, when it was done, 

And heavy clouds obscured the sun, 

The Noah folks to it quickly ran, 

And then the animals began 

To gravely march along in pairs; 

The leopards, tigers, wolves, and bears, 

The deer, the hippopotamuses, 

The rabbits, squirrels, elks, walrusses, 

The camels, goats, cats and donkeys, 



266 TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 

The tall giraffes, the beavers, monkeys, 

The rats, the big rhinoceroses, 

The dromedaries and the horses, 

The sheep, and mice, the kangaroos, 

Hyenas, elephants, koodoos, 

And hundreds more — 'twould take all day, 

My dear, so many names to say — 

And at the very, very end 

Of the procession, by his friend 

And master, faithful dog was seen; 

The livelong time he'd helping been 

To drive the crowd of creatures in, 

And now, with loud, exultant bark, 

He gaily sprang abroad the Ark. 

Alas! so crowded was the space 

He could not in it find a place; 

So, patiently he turned about — 

Stood half way in and half way out. 

And those extremely heavy show'rs 

Decended through nine hundred hours 

And more; and, darling, at the close, 

Most frozen was his honest nose; 

And never could it lose again 

The dampness of that dreadful rain, 

And that is what, my curls of gold, 

Made all the doggies' noses cold! 



TEEASUEES FEOM THE POETIC WOELD. 267 



Dick's Watch. 

i jEAB little Dick, curled up by the fire, 
%w Sat watching the shadows come and go, 
As the dancing flames leaped higher and higher, 
Flooding the room with a mellow glow. 

His chubby hand on his side was pressed, 
And he turned for a moment a listening ear; 

"Mother," cried he, "I've got a watch! 
I can feel it ticking right under here!" 

"Yes, Dick, 'tis a watch that God has made, 
To mark your hours as they fly away; 

He holds the key in His mighty hand, 
And keeps it in order night and day. 

"Should He put aside its mystic key, 
Or lay His hand on the tiny spring, 

The wheels would stop and your watch run down, 
And he in your bosom a lifeless thing — " 

He crept to my side and whispered soft, 

"While his baby voice had an awe- struck sound, 

"I wish you would ask Him, mother dear, 
To be sure and remember to keep it wound/ 



^— 



268 TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 



Entertaining Her Big Sister's Beau. 






Y sister'U be down in a minute, and says you're to 
wait, if you please, 

And says I might stay till she came if I'd promise her never 
to tease, 

Nor speak till you spoke to me first. But that's nonsense, for 
how would you know 

What she told me to say if I didn't? Don't you really and tru- 
ly think so? 

"And then you'd feel strange here alone! And you wouldn't 

know just where to sit; 
For that chair isn't strong on its legs, and we never use it a 

bit. 
We keep it to match with the sofa. But Jack says it would be 

like you 
To flop yourself right down upon it and knock out the very 

last screw. 

"S'pose you try! I won't tell. You're afraid to — Oh, you're afraid 

they would think it was mean? 
Well, then, there's the album — that's pretty, if you're sure that 

your ringers are clean. 



TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 269 

For sister says sometimes I daub it, but she only says that 

when she's cross. 
There's her picture. You know it! It's like her; but she aint as 

good-looking, of course! 

"This is me. It's the best of 'm all. Now, tell me, you'd never 

have thought 
That once I was little as that? It's the only one that could be 

bought — 
For that was the message to pa from the photograph man 

where I sat — 
That he wouldn't print off any more till he first got his money 

for that. 



"What? Maybe you're tired of waiting? Why, often she's longer 

than this; 
There's all her back hair to do up, and all of her front curls to 

friz. 
But it's nice to be sitting here talking like grown people, just 

you and me; 
Do you think you'll be coming here often? Oh, do! But don't 

come like Tom Lee. 



"Tom Lee? Her last beau. Why, my goodness! He used to be 

here day and night, 
Till the folks thought he'd be he* husband; and Jack says that 

gave him a fright. 



270 TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 

You won't run away then, as he did? for you're not a rich 

man, they say, 
Pa says you're as poor as a church-mouse. No"w are you? And 

how poor are they? 

"Ain't you glad that you met me? Well, I am; for I know now 
your hair isn't red; 

But what there is left of it's mousey, and not what that naugh- 
ty Jack said. 

But there! I must go. Sister's coming. But I wish I could 

wait, just to see 
If she ran up to you and she kissed you in the way that she 

used to kiss Lee." 



The Dapple Mare. 

/IfjNCE on a time," as ancient tales declare, 
Vt/ There lived a farmer in a quiet dell 
In Massachusetts, but exactly where, 

Or when, is really more than I can tell — 
Except that, quite above the public bounty, 
He lived within his means, and Bristol county. 

By patient labor and unceasing care, 

He earned, and so enjoyed, his daily bread; 



TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 271 

Contented always with his frugal fare, 

Ambition to be rich ne'er vexed his head; 
And thus unknown to envy, want, or wealth, 
He nourished long in comfort, peace and health. 

The gentle partner of his humble lot, 

The joy and jewel of his wedded life, 
Discharged the duties of his peaceful cot 

Like a true woman and a faithful wife; 
Her mind improved by thought and useful reading, 
Kind words and gentle manners showed her breeding. 

Grown old at last, the farmer called his son, 
The youngest, (and the favorite, I suppose,) 

And said — "I long have thought, my darling John, 
'Tis time to bring my labors to a close; 

So now to toil I mean to bid adieu, 

And deed, my son, the homestead farm to you." 

The boy embraced the boon with vast delight, 

And promised, while their precious lives remained, 

He'd till and tend the farm from morn till night, 
And see his parents handsomely maintained; 

God help him, he would never fail to love, nor 

Do aught to grieve his generous old gov'nor! 

The farmer said — "Well, let us now proceed, 
(You know there's always danger in delays,) 

And get 'Squire Eobinson to write the deed; 

Come — where's my staff? we'll soon be on the way." 



272 TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD, 

But John replied with tender, filial care, 

"You're old and weak — I'll catch the Dapple Mare." 

The mare was saddled, and the old man got on, 
The hoy on foot trudged cheerfully along, 

The while, to cheer his sire, the dutious son 
Beguiled the weary way with talk and song. 

Arrived at length, they found the 'Squire at home, 

And quickly told him wherefore they had come. 

The deed was writ in proper form of law, 

With many a "foresaid," "therefore," "and the same, 5 

And made throughout without mistake or flaw, 
To show that John had now a legal claim 

To all his father's land — conveyed, given, sold, 

Quit-claimed, et cetera — to have and hold. 

Their business done, they left the lawyer's door, 
Happier, perhaps, than when they entered there; 

And started off as they had done before — 
The son on foot, the father on the mare. 

But ere the twain a single mile had gone 

A brilliant thought occurred to Master John. 

Alas for truth! — alas for filial duty! 

Alas! that Satan in the shape of pride, 
(His most bewitching form save that of beauty,) 

Whispered the lad: "My boy, you ought to ride!" 
"Get off!" exclaimed the younker, '"tisn't fair 
That you should always ride the Dapple Mare." 



TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 273 

The son was lusty, and the sire was old, 

And so, with many an oath and many a frown, 

The hapless farmer did as he was told, — 
The man got off the steed, the boy got on, 

And rode away as fast as she could trot, 

And left his sire to trudge it home on foot! 

That night, while seated round the kitchen fire, 
The household sat, cheerful as if no word 

Or deed provoked the injured father's ire, 

Or aught to make him sad had e'er occurred — 

Thus spoke he to his son: "We quite forgot, 

I think, t' include the little turnip lot! 

"I'm very sure, my son, it wouldn't hurt it," 

Calmly observed the meditative sire, 
"To take the deed, my lad, and just insert it." 

Here the old man inserts it — in the fire! 
Then cries aloud with most triumphant air: 
"Who now, my son, shall ride the Dapple Mare!" 




18 



274 



TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 



No Sects in Heaven. 



t 



ALKING- of sects till late one eve, 
Of the various doctrines the saints believe, 
That night I stood, in a troubled dream, 
By the side of a darkly flowing stream. 



And a "Churchman" down to the river came; 
When I heard a strange voice call his name: 
"Good father, stop; when you cross this tide, 
You must leave your robes on the other side.' 

But the aged father did not mind, 
And his long gown floated out behind, 
As down to the stream his way he took, 
His pale hands clasping a gilt-edged book. 

"I'm bound for heaven; and when I'm there, 
Shall want my Book of Common Prayer; 
And, though I put on a starry crown, 
I should feel quite lost without my gown." 



Then he fixed his eyes on the shining track, 
But his gown was heavy and held him back; 
And the poor old father tried in vain, 
A single step in the flood to gain. 



TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 275 

I saw him again on the other side, 
But his silk gown floated on the tide; 
And no one asked, in that blissful spot, 
Whether he belonged to the "church" or not. 

Then down to the river a Quaker strayed; 
His dress of a sober hue was made: 
"My coat and hat must all be gray — 
I cannot go any other way." 

Then he buttoned his coat straight up to his chin, 
And staidly, solemnly waded in, 
And his broad-brimmed hat he pulled down tight, 
Over his forehead so cold and white. 

But a strong wind carried away his hat, 
A moment he silently sighed over that; 
And then, as he gazed to the further shore, 
The coat slipped off, and was seen no more. 

As he entered heaven his suit of gray 
Went quietly sailing, away, away; 
And none of the angels questioned him 
About the width of his beaver's brim. 

Next came Dr. Watts, with a bundle of psalms 

Tied nicely up in his aged arms, 

And hymns as many, a very wise thing, 

That the people in heaven "all 'round" might sing. 



276 TREASURES FEOM THE POETIC WORLD. 

But I thought that he heaved an anxious sigh, 
And he saw that the river ran broad and high; 
And looked rather surprised as one by one 
The psalms and hymns in the wave went down. 

And after him, with his MSS., 

Came Wesley, the pattern of godliness; 

But he cried, "Dear me! what shall I do? 

The water has soaked them through and through." 

And there on the river far and wide, 

Away they went down the swollen tide; 

And the saint, astonished, passed through alone, 

Without his manuscripts, up to the throne. 

Then, gravely walking, two saints by name 
Down to the stream together came; 
But as they stopped at the river's brink, 
I saw one saint from the other shrink. 

"Sprinkled or plunged? may I ask you, friend, 
How you attained to life's great end?" 
"Thus, with a few drops on my brow." 
"But I have been dipped as you see me now. 

"And I really think it will hardly do, 
As I'm 'close communion' to cross with you. 
You're bound, I know, to the realms of bliss, 
But you must go that way, and I'll go this." 



TEEASUKES FEOM THE POETIC WOULD. 277 

Then straightway plunging with all his might, 
Away to the left — his friend to the right, 
Apart they went from this world of sin, 
But at last together they entered in. 

And now, when the river was rolling on, 

A Presbyterian church went down; 

Of women there seemed an innumerable throng, 

But the men I could count as they passed along. 

And concerning the road they never could agree 
The old or the new way, which it could be, 
Nor never a moment stopped to think 
That both would lead to the river's brink. 

And a sound of murmuring, long and loud, 
Came ever up from the moving crowd; 
"You're in the old way, and I'm in the new; 
That is the false, and this is the true"— 
Or "I'm in the old way, and you're in the new; 
TJiat is the false, and this is the true." 

But the brethren only seemed to speak: 
Modest the sisters walked and meek, 
And if ever one of them chanced to say 
What trouble she met on the way, 
How she longed to pass to the other side, 
Nor feared to cross over the swelling tide, 

A voice arose from the brethren then, 
"Let no one speak but the holy men; 



278 TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 

For have ye not heard the words of Paul 
'Oh, let the women keep silence all?'" 

I watched them long in my curious dream, 
Till they stood by the borders of the stream; 
Then, just as I thought, the two ways met; 
But all the brethren were talking yet, 
And would talk on till the heaving tide 
Carried them over side by side — 
Side by side, for the way was one; 
The toilsome journey of life was done; 
And all who in Christ the Savior died, 
Came out alike on the other side. 

No forms, or crosses, or books had they, 
No gowns of silk or suits of grey; 
No creeds to guide them, or MSS. ; 
For all had put on Christ's righteousness. 




TKEASUKES FKOM THE POETIC WOKLD. 279 



Struggle. 

/]A BEAT strength is bought with pain 

\Ls From out the strife — 

From out the storms that sweep the human soul — 

Comes forth the lofty calm of self-control. 

Peace after war. Although the heart may be 
Trampled and plowed like a torn battle-field, 

Bich are the fruits that follow victory, 

And battle grounds the fullest harvests yield. 

Strong grows his arm who breasts a downward stream, 
And stems with steady stroke the mighty tide 

Of his own passions. Sore the wrench may seem, 
Yet only he is strong whose strength is tried. 

To toil is hard. To lay aside the oar — 

To softly rise and fall with passion's swell — 

Is easier far, but when the dream is o'er, 
The bitterness of waking none can tell. 

To float at ease, by sleepy zephyrs fanned, 
Is but to grow more feeble, day by day, 

"While slips life's little hour out, sand by sand, 
And strength and hope together waste away. 



280 TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 

He only wins who sets his thews of steel 
With tighter tension for the prick of pain; 

Who wearies, yet stands fast; whose patient zeal 
Welcomes the present loss for future gain. 

Toil before ease; the cross before the crown. 

Who covets rest, he first must earn the boon. 
He who at night in peace would lay him down 

Must bear his load amid the heats of noon. 



The Gambler's Wife. 

|AEK is the night! how dark — no light — no fire! 
Cold on the hearth, the last faint sparks expire! 
Shivering she watches by the cradle side, 
For him who pledged her love — last year a bride! 



B 



Hark! 'tis his footstep! No — 'tis past- 'tis gone: 
Tick! — Tick! — How wearily the time crawls on! 
Why should he leave me thus? He once was kind! 
And I believed 'twould last — how mad! — how blind! 

"Best thee, my babe! — rest on! — 'tis hunger's cry! 

Sleep! for there is no food! the fount is dry! 

Famine and cold their wearing work have done, 

My heart must break! and thou!" The clock strikes one. 



TEEASUBES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 281 

"Hush! 'tis the dice-box! Yes, he's there, he's there, 
For this! for this he leaves me to despair! 
Leaves love! leaves truth! his wife! his child! for what? 
The wanton's smile — the villain — and the sot! 

"Yes, I'll not curse him! No! 'tis all in vain! 

'Tis long to wait, but sure he'll come again ! 

And I could starve and bless him, but for you, 

My child! — his child! — fiend!" The clock strikes two. 

Hark! how the sign-board creaks! The blast howls by! 
Moan! moan! A dirge swells through the cloudy sky! 
Ha! 'tis his knock! he comes! — he comes once more! 
'Tis but the lattice flaps! Thy hope is o'er. 

"Can he desert me thus? He knows I stay 
Night after night in loneliness to pray 
For his return — and yet he sees no tear! 
No! no! it can not be. He will be here. 

"Nestle more closely, dear one, to my heart! 
Thou'rt cold! thou'rt freezing! But we will not part. 
"Husband!— I die !— Father !— It is not he! 
God! protect my child!" The clock strikes three. 

They're gone! they're gone! the glimmering spark hath fled; 

The wife and child are numbered with the dead! 

On the cold hearth, outstretched in solemn rest, 

The child lies frozen on its mother's breast! 

The gambler came at last — but all was o'er — 

Dead silence reigned around — the clock struck four. 



282 TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 



Of Books. 

I jS there might be a meadow fair to view, 
V X And many people by that way might pass; 
And one might see the grass, and one the dew, 

And one alone the daisy in the grass, 

So, on the pages of a written book, 

Though they to all may beauteously shine,"' 

Yet every one with his own eyes may look, 
And one alone the writer's thought divine. 

As, in a garden husbanded with care, 
Among the blossoms brilliant-hued and grand, 

May chance to grow a wilding, sweetly fair, 

Which was not planted by the gardener's hand; 

Which he, if it had come to meet his eye, 
Had rooted up and cast away, no doubt; 

And yet, some gentle nature passing by 
Might single that frail floweret out. 

So, on the page with careful labor wrought, 
The writer on one purpose all intent, 

A better mind may find a better thought— 
A higher meaning than was ever meant. 



TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 283 

But whether books be meadows fresh and green, 
Or whether they but cultured gardens be, 

Whoever rambles through them, still must glean 
Only such flowers as he has eyes to see. 



f 



Night. 

OW beautiful is night! 

A dewy freshness fills the silent air; 
No mist obscures, nor cloud, nor speck, nor stain 
Breaks the serene of heaven; 
In full- orbed glory yonder moon divine 
Bolls through the dark-blue depths. 
Beneath her steady ray 
The desert-circle spreads 
Like the ocean girdled with the sky. 
How beautiful is night! 




284 TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 



HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 



Henry Wadsworth Longfellow was born in Port- 
land, Me., February 27, 1807, and he died at his home 
in Cambridge, Mass., March 24, 1882, at the age of 
seventy-five. For some time before his death his home 
was in the building formerly occupied by Gen. Wash- 
ington as his headquarters. 

Longfellow studied at Bowdoin College, Brunswick, 
and after three years' travel and study in Europe, be- 
came Professor of Modern Languages in his native col- 
lege. In 1835, he accepted the Chair of Modern Lan- 
guages and Literature in Harvard University. 

The poet's youth was noted for industry and close 
application to study. While at college, he became some- 
what noted for his poems and criticisms contributed to 
periodicals. Longfellow's literary record is a long one. 
In 1833, he published translations of Spanish verses 
called Coplas de Manrique, and an essay on Spanish 
poetry; 1835, Sketches from Beyond the Sea; 1839, Hy- 
perion, a Romance, and also collections of poems, enti- 
tled Voices of the Night; 1842, Poems on Slavery, 1843, 
The Spanish Student, a tragedy; 1845, Poets and Poetry 
of Europe; 1846, The Belfry of Bruges; 1847, Evange- 




HENRY WADSWOETH LONGFELLOW. 



TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 285 

line; 1849, Kavanaugh, and The Seaside and Fireside; 
1851, The Golden Legend; 1855, Song of Hiawatha; 
1858, Miles Standish; 1863, Tales of a Wayside Inn. 

He has also published Three Books of Song, a 
divine tragedy; and translations. Thus we see that 
Longfellow was a great literary worker. Whipple says 
that Longfellow idealizes real life, embodies high moral 
sentiment in beautiful and ennobling forms, and inweaves 
the golden threads of spiritual being into the texture of 
common existence. He is the most popular of Ameri- 
can poets, and his works are admired throughout the 
literary world. In speaking of his death, under date of 
March 24, 1882, the London Times, says: "News of 
Longfellow's death will be read with deep regret where- 
ever the English language is spoken. The death of no 
literary Englishman could excite more general sorrow 
than that of the much-loved author of Evangeline. He 
will be no more sincerely lamented in America than in 
this country. " 

The News, Standard and Telegraph all speak in 
equally graceful terms of Longfellow. 



All the many sounds of nature 
Borrowed sweetness from his singing; 
All the hearts of men were softened 
By the pathos of his music; 



286 TREASURES FROM THE POETIC "WORLD. 

For he sang of peace and freedom, 

Sang of beauty, love, and longing; 

Sang of death, a life undying 

In the Islands of the Blessed. —Hiawatha. 



The Day Is Done- 

tHE day is done, and the darkness 
Falls from the wings of night, 
As a feather is wafted downward 
From an eagle in his flight. 

I see the lights of the village 

Gleam through the rain and the mist, 
And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me, 

That my soul cannot resist — 

A feeling of sadness and longing, 

That is not akin to pain, 
And resembles sorrow only 

As the mist resembles rain. 

Come read to me some poem, 
Some simple and heartfelt lay, 

That shall soothe this restless feeling, 
And banish the thoughts of day. 



TEEASUBES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 287 

Not from the grand old masters, 

Not from the bards sublime, 
Whose distant footsteps echo 

Through the corridors of time;— 

For, like strains of martial music, 

Their mighty thoughts suggest 
Life's endless toil and endeavor, 

And to-night I long for rest. 

Eead from some humble poet, 

Whose songs gushed from his heart, 
As showers from the clouds of summer, 

Or tears from the eyelids start; — 

Who, through long days of labor, 

And nights devoid of ease, 
Still heard in soul the music 

Of wonderful melodies. 

Such songs have power to quiet 

The restless pulse of care, 
And come like the benediction 

That follows after prayer. 

Then read from the treasured volume 

The poem of thy choice, 
And lend to the rhyme of the poet 

The beauty of thy voice. 



288 TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 

And the night shall be filled with music, 
And the cares, that infest the day, 

Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs, 
And as silently steal away. 



Hiawatha's Wooing. 

Cj S unto the bow the cord is, 
^\\ So unto the man is woman; 
Though she bends him, she obeys him, 
Though she draws him yet she follows, 
Useless each without the other!" 

Thus the youthful Hiawatha 
Said within himself and pondered, 
Much perplexed by various feelings, 
Listless, longing, hoping, fearing, 
Dreaming still of Minnehaha, 
Of the lovely Laughing Water, 
In the land of the Dacotahs. 

"Wed a maiden of your people," 
Warning said the old Nokomis; 
"Go not eastward, go not westward, 
For a stranger, whom we know not! 
Like a fire upon the hearthstone 
Is a neighbor's homely daughter, 



TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD, 289 

Like the starlight or the moonlight 
Is the handsomest of strangers!" 

Thus dissuading spake Nokomis, 
And my Hiawatha answered 
Only this: "Dear old Nokomis, 
Very pleasant is the firelight, 
But I like the starlight better, 
Better do I like the moonlight!" 

Gravely then said old Nokomis; 
"Bring not here an idle maiden, 
Bring not here a useless woman, 
Hands unskilful, feet unwilling; 
Bring a wife with nimble fingers, 
Heart and hand that move together, 
Feet that run on willing errands!" 

Smiling answered Hiawatha 
"In the land of the Dacotahs 
Lives the Arrow-maker's daughter, 
Minnehaha, Laughing Water, 
Handsomest of all the women. 
I will bring her to your wigwam, 
She shall run upon your errands 
Be your starlight, moonlight, firelight, 
Be the sunlight of my people!" 
Still dissuading said Nokomis; 
"Bring not to my lodge a stranger 
From the land of the Dacotahs! 
Very fierce are the Dacotahs; 
Often is there war between us; 
There are feuds yet unforgotten, 

19 



290 TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 

Wounds that ache and still may open!" 

Laughing, answered Hiawatha- 
"For that reason, if no other, 
Would I wed the fair Dacotah, 
That our tribes might be united, 
That old feuds might be forgotten, 
And old wounds be healed forever!" 

Thus departed Hiawatha 
To the land of the Dacotahs, 
To the land of handsome women; 
Striding over moor and meadow, 
Through interminable forests, 
Through uninterrupted silence. 

With his moccasons of magic, 
At each stride a mile he measured; 
Yet the way seemed long before him, 
And his heart outrun his footsteps, 
And he journeyed without resting, 
Till he heard the cataract's laughter, 
Heard the falls of Minnehaha 
Calling to him through the silence. 
"Pleasant is the sound ! " he murmured, 
"Pleasant is the voice that calls me!" 

On the outskirts of the forest, 
'Twixt the shadow and the sunshine, 
Herds of fallow deer were feeding, 
But they saw not Hiawatha; 
To his bow he whispered, "Fail not." 
To his arrow whispered, "Swerve not," 
Sent it singing on its errand, 



TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 291 

To the red heart of the roebuck; 
Threw the deer across his shoulder, 
And sped forward without pausing. 

At the doorway of his wigwam 
Sat the ancient Arrow-maker, 
In the land of the Dacotahs, 
Making arrow-heads of jasper, — 
Arrow-heads of chalcedony. 
At his side, in all her beauty, 
Sat the lovely Minnehaha, 
Sat his daughter, Laughing Water, 
Plaiting mats of flags and rushes; 
Of the past the old man's thoughts were, 
And the maiden's of the future. 

He was thinking as he sat there, 
Of the days when with such arrows 
He had struck the deer and bison, 
On the Muskoday, the meadow; 
Shot the wild goose, flying southward; 
On the wing, the clamorous Wawa; 
Thinking of the great war-parties, 
How they came to buy his arrows. 
Could not fight without his arrows, 
Ah, no more such noble warriors 
Could* be found on earth as they were: 
Now the men were like the women, 
Only used their tongues for weapons! 

She was thinking of a hunter, 
From another tribe and country, 
Young and tall and very handsome, 



292 TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 

Who, one morning in the Spring-time, 
Came to buy her father's arrows, 
Sat and rested in the wigwam, 
Lingered long about the doorway, 
Looking back as he departed. 
She had heard her father praise him, 
Praise his courage and his wisdom; 
Would he come again for arrows 
To the falls of Minnehaha? 
On the mat her hands lay idle, 
And her eyes were very dreamy. 

Through their thoughts they heard a footstep, 
Heard a rustling in the branches, 
And with glowing cheek and forehead, 
With the deer upon his shoulders, 
Suddenly from out the woodlands 
Hiawatha stood before them. 

Straight the ancient Arrow-maker 
Looked up gravely from his labor, 
Laid aside the unfinished arrow, 
Bade him enter at the doorway, 
Saying, as he rose to meet him, 
"Hiawatha, you are welcome!" 

At the feet of Laughing Water 
Hiawatha laid his burden, 
Threw the red deer from his shoulders; 
And the maiden looked up at him, 
Looked up from her mat of rushes, 
Said with gentle look and accent, 
"You are welcome, Hiawatha!" 




TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 293 

Very spacious was the wigwam, 
Made of deer- skin dressed and whitened, 
With the Gods of the Dacotahs 
Drawn and painted on its curtains, 
And so tall the doorway, hardly 
Hiawatha stooped to enter, 
Hardly touched his eagle -feathers 
As he entered at the doorway. 

Then uprose the Laughing Water, 
From the ground fair Minnehaha 
Laid aside her mat unfinished, 
Brought forth food and set before them, 
Water brought them from the brooklet, 
Gave them food in earthen vessels, 
Gave them drink in bowls of bass-wood, 
Listened while the guest was speaking, 
Listened while her father answered, 
But not once her lips she opened, 
Not a single word she uttered. 

Yes, as in a dream she listened 
To the words of Hiawatha, 
As he talked of old Nokomis, 
Who had nursed him in his childhood, 
As he told of his companions, 
Chibiabas, the musician, 
And the very strong man, 'Kwasind, 
And of happiness and plenty 
In the land of the jib ways, 
In the pleasant land and peaceful. 

"After many years of warfare, 



294 TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 

Many years of strife and bloodshed, 
There is peace between the Ojibways 
And the tribe of the Dacotahs." 
Thus continued Hiawatha, 
And then added, speaking slowly, 

"That this peace may last forever, 
And our hands be clasped more closely, 
And our hearts be more united, 
Give me as my wife this maiden, 
Minnehaha, Laughing Water, 
Loveliest of Dacotah women!" 

And the ancient Arrow-maker 
Paused a moment ere he answered, 
Smoked a little while in silence, 
Looked at Hiawatha proudly, 
Fondly looked at Laughing Water, 
And made answer very gravely: 

"Yes, if Minnehaha wishes; 
Let your heart speak, Minnehaha!" 

And the lovely Laughing Water 
Seemed more lovely, as she stood there, 
Neither willing nor reluctant, 
As she went to Hiawatha, 
Softly took the seat beside him, 
While she said, and blushed to say it, 
"I will follow you, my husband!" 

This was Hiawatha's wooing! 
Thus it was he won the daughter 
Of the ancient Arrow-maker, 
In the land of the Dacotahs. 



TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 295 

From the wigwam he departed, 
Leading with him Laughing Water; 
Hand in hand they went together, 
Through the woodland and the meadow, 
Left the old man standing lonely 
At the doorway of his wigwam, 
Heard the falls of Minnehaha 
Calling to them from afar off, 
"Fare thee well, Minnehaha!" 

And the ancient Arrow-maker 
Turned again unto his labor, 
Sat down by his sunny doorway, 
Murmuring to himself, saying: 
"Thus it is our daughters leave us. 
Those we love, and those who love us! 
Just when they have learned to help us, 
When we are old and lean upon them, 
Comes a youth with flaunting feathers, 
With his flute of reeds, a stranger 
Wanders piping through the village, 
Beckons to the fairest maiden, 
And she follows where he leads her, 
Leaving all things for the stranger!" 

Pleasant was the journey homeward, 
Through interminable forests, 
Over meadow, over mountain, 
Over river, hill, and hollow. 
Shoit it seemed to Hiawatha, 
Though they journeyed very slowly, 



296 TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 

Though his pace he checked and slackened 
To the steps of Laughing Water. 

Over wide and rushing rivers 
In his arms he hore the maiden; 
Light he thought her as a feather, 
As the plume upon his head-gear; 
Cleared the tangled pathway for her, 
Bent aside the swaying branches, 
Made at night a lodge of branches, 
And a bed with boughs of hemlock, 
And a fire before the doorway 
With the dry cones of the pine tree. 

All the traveling winds went with them, 
O'er the meadow, through the forest; 
All the stars of night looked at them, 
Watched with sleepless eyes their slumber; 
From his ambush in the oak tree 
Peeped the squirrel, Adjidaumo, 
Watched with eager eyes the lovers; 
And the rabbit, the Wabasso, 
Scampered from the path before them, 
Peering, peeping from his burrow, 
Sat erect upon his haunches, 
Watched with curious eyes the lovers. 

Pleasant was the journey homeward! 
All the birds sang loud and sweetly 
Songs of happiness and heart' s-ease. 
Sang the blue-bird, the Owaissa, 
"Happy are you, Hiawatha, 
Having such a wife to love you!" 



TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 297 

Sang the robin, the Opechee, 
"Happy are you, Laughing Water, 
Having such a noble husband!" 

From the sky the sun benignant 
Looked upon them through the branches, 
Saying to them, "0 my children, 
Love is sunshine, hate is shadow; 
Life is checkered shade and sunshine; 
Eule by love, Hiawatha!" 

From the sky the moon looked at them, 
Filled the lodge with mystic splendors, 
Whispered to them, "0 my children, 
Day is restless, night is quiet, 
Man imperious, woman feeble; 
Half is mine, although I follow; 
Eule by patience, Laughing Water!" 

Thus it was they journeyed homeward; 
Thus it was that Hiawatha 
To the lodge of old Nokomis 
Brought the moonlight, starlight, firelight, 
Brought the sunshine of his people, 
Minnehaha, Laughing Water, 
Handsomest of all the women 
In the land of the Dacotahs, 
In the land of handsome women. 




298 TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 



Resignation. 

_IEEE is 



Ti 



HEEE is no flock, however watched and tended, 
But one dead lamb is there! 
There is no fireside, howsoe'er defended, 
But has one vacant chair. 



The air is full of farewells to the dying, 

And mourning for the dead; 
The heart of Bachel, for her children crying, . 

Will not be comforted! 

Let us be patient! These severe afflictions 

Not from the ground arise, 
But oftentimes celestial benedictions 

Assume this dark disguise. 

We see but dimly through the mists and vapors; 

Amid these earthly damps 
What seemed to us but sad funeral tapers, 

May be Heaven's distant lamps. 

There is no death! What seems to be so is transition; 

This life of mortal breath 
Is but a suburb of the life Elysian 

Whose portal we call death. 

She is not dead — the child of our affection — 
But gone unto that school 



TEEASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 399 

Where she no longer needs our poor protection, 
And Christ himself doth rule. 

In that great cloister's stillness and seclusion, 

By guardian angels led 
Safe from temptation, safe from sin's pollution, 

She lives, whom we call dead. 

Day after day we think what she is doing 

In those bright realms of air; 
Year after year, her tender steps pursuing, 

Behold her grown more fair. 

Thus do we walk with her, and keep unbroken 

The bond which nature gives, 
Thinking that our remembrance, though unspoken, 

May reach her where she lives. 

Not as a child shall we again behold her; 

For, when with rapture wild, 
In our embraces we again enfold her, 

She will not be a child. 

But a fair maiden in her Father's mansion, 

Clothed with celestial grace; 
And beautiful with all the soul's expansion 

Shall we behold her face. 

And though at times impetuous with emotion 

And anguish long suppressed, 
The swelling heart heaves moaning like the ocean, 

That cannot be at rest; — 



300 TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 

We will be patient, and assuage the feeling 

We may not wholly stay; 
By silence sanctifying, not concealing, 

The grief that must have way. 



Drifting. 

fjjY soul to-day 
WIU Is far away, 
Sailing the Vesuvian Bay; 

My winged boat, 

A bird afloat, 
Swims round the purple peaks remote: 

Bound purple peaks 

It sails, and seeks 
Blue inlets and their crystal creeks, 

Where high rocks throw, 

Through deeps below, 
A duplicated golden glow. 

Far, vague, and dim, 
The mountains swim, 
While on Vesuvius' misty brim, 



TEEASUEES FEOM THE POETIC WOELD. 301 

With outstretched hands, 
The gray smoke stands 
O'erlooking the volcanic lands. 

Here Ischia smiles 

O'er liquid miles; 
And yonder bluest of the isles, 

Calm Capri waits, 

Her sapphire gates 
Beguiling to her bright estates. 

I heed not, if 

My rippling skiff 
Floats swift or slow from cliff to cliff;— 

With dreamful eyes 

My spirit lies 
Under the walls of Paradise. 

Under the walls 

Where swells and falls 
The bay's deep breast at intervals, 

At peace I lie, 

Blown softly by, 
A cloud upon this liquid sky. 

The day, so mild, 

Is Heaven's own child, 
With earth and ocean reconciled; 

The airs I feel 

Around me steal 
Are murmuring to the murmuring keel. 






302 TREASURES EROM THE POETIC WORLD, 

Over the rail 

My hand I trail 
Within the shadow of the sail, 

A joy intense, 

The cooling sense 
Glides down my drowsy indolence. 

With dreamful eyes 

My spirit lies 
Where Summer sings and never dies; 

O'erveiled with vines, 

She glows and shines 
Among her future oil and wines. 

Her children, hid 

The cliffs amid, 
Are gamboling with the gamboling kid; 

Or down the walls, 

With tipsy calls, 
Laugh on the rocks like waterfalls. 

The fisher's child, 

With tresses wild, 
Unto the smooth, bright sand beguiled, 

With glowing lips 

Sings as she skips, 
Or gazes at the far-off ships. 

Yon deep bark goes 
Where traffic blows, 
From lands of sun to lands of snows; — 



TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 303 

This happier one, 
Its course is run 
From lands of snows to lands of sun. 

happy ship, 

To rise and dip, 
With the blue crystal at your lip! 

happy crew, 

My heart with you 
Sails, and sails, and sings anew! 

No more, no more 

The worldly shore 
Upbraids me with its loud uproar! 

With dreamful eyes 

My spirit lies 
Under the walls of Paradise! 




304 



TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 



Bay Billie. 



t 



WAS the last fight at Fredericksburg- 
Perhaps the day you reck — 
Our boys, the Twenty- Second Maine, 

Kept Early's men in check, 
Just where "Wade Hampton boomed away, 
The fight went neck and neck. 



Eight stoutly did we hold the wing 
'Gainst odds increasing still; 

Five several stubborn times we charged 
The battery on the hill, 

And five times beaten back, re-formed, 
And kept our column still. 

At last from out the centre fight 
Spurred up a General's Aid, 

"That battery must silenced be!" 
He cried, as past he sped. 

Our Colonel simply touched his cap, 
And then with measured tread, 



To lead the crouching lines once more 
The grand old fellow came, — 

No wounded man but raised his head 
And strove to gasp his name, 



TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 305 

And those who could not speak or stir, 
"God blessed him" just the same. 

For he was all the world to us, 

That hero gray and grim. 
Eight well he knew that fearful slope 

We'd climb with none but him, 
Though while his white head led the way 

We'd charge hell's portals in. 

This time we were not half way up 

When, 'midst the storm of shell, 
Our leader, with his sword upraised, 

Beneath our bayonets fell; 
And as we bore him back, the foe 

Let up a fearful yell. 

Our hearts went with him; back we swept, 

And when the bugle said 
"Up, charge again!" no man was there 

But hung his dogged head; 
"We've no one left to lead us now," 

The sullen soldiers said. 

Just then before the laggard line, 

The Colonel's horse we spied 
Bay Billy, with his trappings on, 

His nostrils swelling wide, 
As though still on his gallant back 

The master sat astride. 
20 



306 



TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 



Eight royally he took the place 

That was of old his wont, 
And with a neigh, that seemed to say 

Above that battle's brunt, 
"How can the Twenty- second charge 

If I am not in front?" 

Like statues we stood rooted there 

And gazed a little space, 
Above the floating mane we missed 

The dear farniliar face; 
But we saw Bay Billy's eye of fire 

And it gave us hearts of grace. 

No bugle call could rouse us all 
As that brave sight had done — 

Down all the battered line we felt 
A lightning impulse run; 

Up, up the hill we followed Bill, 
And captured every gun! 

And when upon the conquered height 
Died out the battle's hum, 

Vainly 'mid living and the dead 
We sought our hero dumb; 

It seemed as if a spectre steed 
To win that day had come. 



And then the dusk and dew of night 
.Pell softly o'er the plain, 



TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 307 

As though o'er man's dread work of death 

The angels wept again, 
And drew night's curtain gently round 

A thousand heds of pain. 

All night the surgeon's torches went 

The ghastly rows between; 
All night with solemn step I paced 

The torn and bloody green; 
But all who fought in the big war 

Such fearful sights have seen. 

At last the morning broke. The lark 

Sang in the merry skies, 
As if to e'en the sleepers there 

It bade awake and rise! 
Though naught but that last trump of all 

Could ope their heavy eyes. 

And then once more with banners gay 

Stretched out the long brigade; 
Trimly upon the furrowed field 

The troops stood on parade; 
And bravely 'mid the ranks were closed 

The gaps the fight had made. 

Not half the Twenty- Second's men 

Were in their place that morn, 
And Corporal Dick, who yester-noon 

Stood six brave fellows on 



308 



TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 



Now touched my elbow in the ranks, 
For all between were gone. 

Ah! who forgets that dreary hour 

When, as with misty eyes, 
To call the old familiar roll 

The solemn sergeant tries; 
One feels the thumping of the heart 

When no prompt voice replies. 

And as in falt'ring tone and slow 
The last few names were said, 

Across the field some missing horse 
Came up with weary tread; 

It caught the Sergeant's eye, and quick 
Bay Billy's name he read. 

Yes! there the old bay hero stood, 
All safe from battle's harms; 

And ere an order could be heard 
Or the bugle's quick alarms, 

Down all the front from end to end. 
The troops presented arms. 



.Not all the shoulder-straps on earth 
Could still that mighty cheer, 

And ever from that famous day 
When rang the roll-call clear, 

Bay Billy's was read, and then 
The whole line answered "Here!" 



TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 309 



Bunker Hill. 

J. WAS dark on Bunker's misty height, 

^ And careless slept the haughty foes, 
When, through the silence of the night, 

A low, mysterious hum arose; 
And men, with stern but whispered speech, 

Pressed on with footsteps fleet and still, 
While the low watchword breathed by each, 

As on he passed was — "Bunker Hill." 

The drowsy guard paced to and fro; 

The leaguered town lay sunk to rest, 
Save where some mother murmured low, 

To soothe the babe upon her breast. 
The watch-dog's hollow bay grew dumb; 

The waning night waxed damp and chill, 
Yet still that low, portentious hum 

Stole faintly down from Bunker Hill. 

'Twas morn — the leaguering host to arms 

With sudden impulse hotly sprang, 
While clarion-notes in long alarms 

Along their serried squadrons rang; 
And haughty grew their chieftain's smile, 

As to that music wild and shrill, 
He watched them, slowly, file by file, 

March proudly on to Bunker Hill. 



310 



TEEASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 



For on that height with waiting arms, 

In fearless, fixed, heroic mood, 
Hushed as an earthquake — boding calm, 

A band of dauntless spirits stood, — 
They stood, though brow and cheek were pale, 

With hands all nerved by deathless will — 
Oh, "Hearts of Oak," ye did not quail 

That fateful morn, on Bunker Hill. 

Far from the mountain to the main, 

Wherever rose the din of life, 
The oath — "We'll break the tyrant's chain, 

Or perish in the deadly strife!" 
Had, like a river, onward swept, 

A thousand free-born hearts to thrill — 
And proudly was that proud oath kept 

By Freedom's sons, on Bunker Hill! 

They came — the foes — and side by side 

Stood those brave spirits, firm and bold; 
They met — and back the advancing tide, 

Swift as retiring surges, rolled. 
The serried lines, the proud array, 

Here broken by the falling rill — 
Oh, many a foot went up that day 

That ne'er came down from Bunker Hill! 



Again, and yet again; — Fate! 

Hadst thou no kinder smile for those 
Who, in the dire and dreadful strait, 

For liberty and country rose? 



TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 311 

Its failing food no more supplied, 

The booming cannon's deadly peal 
To deep and sullen silence died, 

And all was lost on Bunker Hill! 

Yet not in vain — Oh, not in vain! — 

Those Hearts of Oak endured the strife! — 
A soul that never slept again 

Awoke that day to deathless life; 
As sprang the fabled bird of yore 

From its own ashes, so 'mid ill 
And ruin, Victory plumed once more 

For glorious flight, on Bunker Hill! 

And far and wide her wing she spread, 

From North to South, from East to West, 
Till, with a shriek, Oppression fled 

To hide her torn and fallen crest! 
sons of those brave dauntless sires, 

Whose memories warm our bosom still, 
Guard well the true and holy fires 

They lit that day on Bunker Hill! 




312 



TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 



The Picket Before Bull Run. 



Y gun shines in the misty air. 

The fog in the vale hangs chill and cold, 
The gloaming tree o'er our thicket lair 

Heaves up like a standard's fold; 
'Tis near the beat of the early drum, 

For light pales up to each fading star; 
I watch till the crimson morning come 
O'er the eastern hills afar. 

My mate sleeps on, as a weary child, 

In tranquil rest at a mother's knee, 
When the hymn floats off in twilight mild, 

And the shades of danger flee. 
For him the prayers of a household band 

This night o'er the cloudy stair have striven, 
Where the great archangels flaming stand, 

At the golden doors of heaven. 



'Tis still; my heart, in the early morn, 
Yearns fondly back to the closing past; 

The joys of youth, in their glory born, 
As pearls from the genii cast; 

The love that burned as a vestal fire, 

Though lit on a shrine of crumbling mould — 



TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. ' 313 

The chant of fame in a far-off choir, 

That down through the years hath rolled. 

A stealthy tread in yon thicket's brow — 

'Tis the foeman stirs each weaiy limb; 
Perchance his thought is a pilgrim now, — 

Though the gates of memory dim 
He hears the plash of Edisto's wave, 

He sees the star of the morning shine 
On Yarvo's breast, or evening lave 

In the tide of swift Saline. 

^P" 7F ^F 3p 

A shot! aha! 'tis their parting word; 

A smothered groan at my side I hear. 
Oh, down the hill, like a prairie herd, 

They burst, with a rolling cheer; 
And our captain points with waving blade, 

"Fall back, boys! back to your .farm-house wall 
On, on through the woodland's tangled shade!" 

Up, boy! 'tis our bugle call. 

In vain! it calls to thine ear in vain, 

For night must fall on thy closing race, 
The mourner bend in the holy fame 

For a matyred Savior's grace. 
The blanket's wet with thy brightening blood, 

The spirit's gone from thy half-closed eye; 
The Jordan rolls in a stormy flood, 

Where thy conquering pinions fly. 



314 



TREASURES FROM THE POETIC "WORLD. 



He rests in peace 'neath the old oak shade— 

"We wavered back from the charging foe — 
And the rebel turf on his brow is laid, 

Their winds o'er the slumberer go. 
He sleeps, while the bells of autumn toll, 

Or the murmuring song of spring flits by, 
Till the crackling heavens in thunder roll 

To the bugle blast on high. 



Little Colden Hair. 



EITTLE Golden Hair was watching, in the window broad 
and high, 
For the coming of her father, who had gone the foe to fight; 
He had left her in the morning, and had told her not to cry, 
But to have a kiss all ready when he came to her at night. 



She had wondered, all the day, 
In her simple, childish way, 
And had asked, as time went on, 
Where her father could have gone. 



She had heard the muskets firing, she had counted every one, 
Till the number grew so many that it was too great a load; 



TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 315 

Then the evening fell upon her, clear of sound of shout or gun, 
And she gazed with wistful waiting down the dusty Concord 
road. 

Little Golden Hair had listened, not a single week before, 
While the heavy sand was falling on her mother's coffin-lid; 

And she loved her father better for the loss that then she bore, 
And thought of him and mourned for him, whatever else she 
did. 

So she wondered all the day 
What could make her father stay, 
And she cried a little, too, 
As he'd told her not to do; 

And the sun sunk slowly downward and went grandly out of 
sight, 
And she had the kiss all ready on his lips to be bestowed; 
But the shadows made one shadow, and the twilight grew to 
night, 
And she looked, and looked, and listened, down the dusty 
Concord road. 

Then the night grew light and lighter, and the moon rose full 
and round, 

In the little sad face peering, looking piteously and mild; 
Still upon the walks of gravel there was heard no welcome sound, 

And no father came there, eager for the kisses of his child. 



316 



TEEASUEES FEOM THE POETIC WOELD 



Long and sadly did she wait, 
Listening at the cottage gate; 
Then she felt a quick alarm, 
Lest he might have come to harm. 

With no honnet but her tresses, no companion but her fears, 
And no guide except the moonbeams that the pathway dimly 
showed, 

With a little sob of sorrow, quick she threw away her tears, 
And alone she bravely started down the dusty Concord road; 

And for many a mile she struggled, full of weariness and pain, 
Calling loudly for her father, that her voice he might not 
miss ; 

Till at last among a number of the wounded and the slain, 
Was the white face of the soldier waiting for his daughter's 



Softly to his lips she crept, 
Not to wake him as he slept; 
Then with her young heart at rest, 
Laid her head upon his breast. 

And upon the dead face smiling, with the living one near by, 
All the night a golden streamlet of the moonbeams gently 
flowed; 

One to live, a lonely orphan, one beneath the sod to lie — 
They found them in the morning on the dusty Concord road. 



TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 317 



JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. 



John Greenleaf Whittier was born at Haverhill, 
Mass., December 17, 1807, and is (1882) living at 
Amesbury, Mass., where he has been living for forty-two 
years. 

His early life was passed in farm work and shoe- 
making. At eighteen, with a strong desire for learning, he 
entered a local academy and studied two years. In 
1829 he edited the Boston American Manufacturer, 
and in 1830 the Hartford New England Review. 
Having returned to his farm in 1835, he was elect- 
ed to the Massachusetts Legislature, and in 1836 ap- 
pointed Secretary of the American Anti-slavery Society, 
and editor of The Pennsylvania Freeman. 

Whittier's principal writings may be recorded as fol- 
lows : In 1836, Voices of Freedom, and Leaves from 
Margaret Smith's Journal; 1850, Old Portraits and Modern 
Sketches, also Collected Poems; 1851, Songs of Labor; 
1853, The Chapel of the Hermits; 1854, Literary Recre- 
ations; 1856, The Panorama; 1859, Home Ballads ; 1864, 
War"' Times; 1866, Snow Bound; 1867, Tent on the 
Beach; 1869, Among the Hills. Other works and many 
single poems deserve special mention, but space forbids. 



318 



TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 



Whittier was identified with the anti- slavery move- 
ment, and his Voices of Freedom show a conscientious 
earnestness and a terrible energy which seems to con- 
tain the very life and blood of the author. 

He is sometimes called the Quaker poet, because 
he is a member of the society of Friends, or Quakers. 
He stands next to Longfellow in popularity. A very 
large circle of admirers even place him above all other 
poets of the present age. 

The following appropriate lines were written by 
Longfellow : 

TO JOHN G. WHITTIER. 

Thou, whose daily life anticipates 

The life to come, and in whose thought and word 
The spiritual world preponderates, 

Hermit of Amesbury! thou, too, hast heard 
Voices and melodies from beyond the gates, 

And speakest only when thy soul is stirred! 




TREASURES FEOM THE POETIC WORLD. 319 



Snow-Bound. 

1 HE sun, that brief December day, 
T Eose cheerless over hills of gray, 
And, darkly circled, gave at noon 
A sadder light than waning moon, 
Slow tracing down the thickening sky 
Its mute and ominous prophecy, 
A portent seeming less than threat, 
It sank from sight before it set. 
The wind blew east: we heard the roar 
Of Ocean on his wintry shore, 
And felt the strong pulse throbbing there 
Beat with low rythm our inland air. 

Unwarmed by any sunset light, 

The gray day darkened into night, 

A night made hoary with the swarm 

And whirl-dance of the blinding storm, 

As zigzag wavering to and fro 

Crossed and recrossed the winged snow: 

And ere the early bedtime came, 

The white drift piled the window-frame, 

And through the glass the clothes-line posts 

Looked in like tall and sheeted ghosts. 

So all night long the storm roared on: 
The morning broke without a sun: 



320 



TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 



In tiny spherule, traced with lines 

Of Nature's geometric signs, 

In starry flake, and pellicle, 

All day the hoary meteor fell; 

And, when the second morning shone, 

We looked upon a world unknown, 

On nothing we could call our own. 

Around the glistening wonder bent 

The blue walls of the firmament; 

No cloud above, no earth below, — 

A universe of sky and snow! 

The old familiar sights of ours 

Took marvelous shapes : strange domes and towers 

Eose up where sty and corn-crib stood, 

Or garden wall, or belt of wood; 

A smooth white mound the brush-pile showed; 

A fenceless drift what once was road: 

The bridle-post an old man sat, 

With loose-flung coat and high cocked hat; 

The well-curb had a Chinese roof; 

And even the long sweep, high aloof, 

In its slant splendor seemed to tell 

Of Pisa's leaning miracle. 



All day the gusty north-wind bore 
The loosening drift its breath before; 
Low circling down its southern zone, 
The sun through dazzling snow-mist shone. 



TBEASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 321 

Beyond the circle of our hearth, 
No welcome sound of toil or mirth 
Unbound the spell, and testified 
Of human life and thought outside. 
We minded that the sharpest ear 
The buried brooklet could not hear, 
The music of whose liquid lip 
Had been to us companionship, 
And, in our lonely life, had grown 
To have an almost human tone. 

As night drew on, and, from the crest 
Of wooded knolls that ridged the west, 
The sun, a snow-blown traveler, sank 
From sight beneath the smothering bank, 
We piled, with care, our nightly stack 
Of wood against the chimney-back, — 
The oaken log, green, huge, and thick, 
And on its top the Stout backstick; 
The knotty forestick laid apart, 
And filled between, with curious art 
The ragged brush; then, hovering near, 
We watched the first red blaze appear; 
Heard the sharp crackle, caught the gleam 
On whitewashed wall and sagging beam, 
Until the old, rude-furnished room 
Burst flower-like, into rosy bloom. 

Shut in from all the world without, 
We sat the clean-winged hearth about, 

21 



322 



TEEASUEES FEOM THE POETIC ^OELD. 



Content to let the north-wind roar 

In baffled rage at pane and door, 

While the red logs before us beat 

The frost-line back with tropic heat; 

And ever, when a louder blast 

Shook beam and rafter as it passed, 

The merrier up its roaring draft 

The great throat of the chimney laughed. 

The house-dog, on his paws outspread 
Laid to the fire his drowsy head; 
The cat's dark silhouette on the wall 
A couchant tiger's seemed to fall; 
And, for the winter fireside meet, 
Between the andirons' straddling feet, 
The mug of cider simmered slow, 
The apples sputtered in a row; 
And, close at hand, the basket stood , 
With nuts from brown October's wood. 



At last the great logs, crumbling low, 
Sent out a dull and duller glow; 
The bull's-eye watch that hung in view, 
Ticking its weary circuit through, 
Pointed, with mutely-warning sign, 
Its black hand to the hour of nine. 
That sign the pleasant circle broke: 
My uncle ceased his pipe to smoke, 
Knocked from its bowl the "refuse gray, 
And laid it tenderly away, 



TBEASUEES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 323 

Then roused himself to safely cover 
The dull red brands with ashes over. 
And while with care our mother laid 
Her work aside, her steps she stayed 
One moment, seeking to express 
Her grateful sense of happiness 
For food and shelter, warmth and health, 
And love's contentment, more than wealth. 

Within our beds awhile we heard 
The wind that round the gables roared, 
With now and then a ruder shock, 
Which made our very bedsteads rock. 
We heard the loosened clapboards tost, 
The board-nails snapping in the frost, 
And on us, through the unplastered wall, 
Pelt the light-sifted snow-flakes fall. 
But sleep stole on, as sleep will do 
When hearts are light and life is new; 
Faint and more faint the murmurs grew, 
Till, in the summerland of dreams, 
They softened to the sound of streams, 
Low stir of leaves, and dip of oars, 
And lapsing waves on quiet shores. 



*XX* 



324 



TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 



The Angels of Buena Yista. 

PEAK and tell us, our Ximena, looking northward far 
away, 

O'er the camp of the invaders, o'er the Mexican array, 
Who is losing? who is winning? are they far or come they near? 
Look abroad, and tell us, sister, whither rolls the storm we hear. 



"Down the hills of Angostura still the storm of battle rolls, 
Blood is flowing, men are dying, — God have mercy on their 

souls!" 
Who is losing? who is winning? — "Over hill and over plain, 
I see but smoke of cannon clouding through the mountain rain!" 

Holy Mother! keep our brothers! Look, Ximena, look once 

more: 
"Still I see the fearful whirlwind rolling darkly as before, 
Bearing on, in strange confusion, friend and foeman, foot and 

horse, 
Like some wild and troubled torrent sweeping down its mountain 

course." 



Look forth once more, Ximena! "Ah! the smoke has rolled 

away; 
And I see the Northern rifles gleaming down the ranks of gray. 



TREASUBES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 325 

Hark! that sudden blast of bugles! there the troop of Minon 

wheels, 
There the Northern horses thunder, with the cannon at their 

heels. 

"Jesu, pity, how it thickens! now retreat and now advance! 
Eight against the blazing cannon shivers Puebla's charging lance ! 
Down they go, the brave young riders;* horse and foot together 

fall; 
Like a ploughshare in the fallow, through them ploughs the 

Northern ball." 

Nearer came the storm and nearer, rolling fast and frightful on: 
Speak, Ximena, speak and tell us, who has lost and who has 

won? 
"Alas! alas! I know not; friend and foe together fall; 
O'er the dying rush the living: pray, my sisters, for them all! 

"Lo! the wind the smoke is lifting: Blessed Mother, save my 

biain ! 
I can see the wounded crawling slowly out from heaps of slain; 
Now they stagger, blind and bleeding, now they fall, and strive 

to rise; 
Hasten, sisters, haste and save them, lest they die before our 

eyes! 

"0 my heart's love! my dear one, lay thy poor head on my 

knee; 
Dost thou know the lips that kiss thee? Canst thou hear me? 

Canst thou see me? 



326 



TKEASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 



my husband, brave and gentle! my Bernal, look once 

more 
On the blessed cross before thee! Mercy! mercy! all is o'er!" 

Dry thy tears, my poor Ximena; lay thy dear one down to rest; 
Let his hands be meekly folded, lay the cross upon his breast; 
Let his dirge be sung hereafter, and his funeral masses said; 
To-day, thou poor bereaved one, the living ask thy aid. 

Close beside her, faintly moaning, fair and young, a soldier lay, 
Torn with shot and pierced with lances, bleeding slow his life 

away; 
But, as tenderly before him, the lorn Ximena knelt, 
She saw the Northern eagle shining on his pistol-belt. 

With a stifled cry of horror straight she turned away her head; 

With a sad and bitter feeling, looked she back upon her dead; 

But she heard the youth's low moaning, and his struggling 

breath of pain, 

And she raised the cooling water to his parching lips again. 



Whispered low the dying soldier, pressed her hand and faintly 
smiled ; 

Was that pitying face his mother's? Did she watch beside her 
child? 

All her stranger words with meaning her woman's heart sup- 
plied ; 

With her kiss upon his forehead, "Mother!" murmured he, and 
died! 



TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 327 

"A bitter curse upon them, poor boy, who led thee forth 
From some gentle, sad-eyed mother, weeping lonely in the 

North!" 
Spake the mournful Mexic woman as she laid him with her 

dead, 
And turned to soothe the Irving, and bind the wounds which 

bled. 

Look forth once more, Ximena! "Like a cloud before the wind 

Kolls the battle down the mountain, leaving blood and death be- 
hind ; 

Ah! they plead in vain for mercy; in the dust the wounded 
strive ; 

Hide your faces, holy angels! Oh, thou Christ of God, forgive!" 

Sink, night, among thy mountains! let the cool gray shadows 

fall; 
Dying brothers, fighting demons, drop thy curtain over all! 
Through the thickening winter twilight wide apart the battle 

rolled ; 
In its sheath the sabre rested, and the cannon's lips grew cold. 

But the noble Mexic women still their holy task pursued, 
Through that long, dark night of sorrow, worn, faint and lacking 

food; 
Over weak and suffering brothers with a tender care they hung, 
And the dying foeman blessed them in a strange and Northern 

tongue. 



328 



TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 



Not wholly lost, Father, is this evil world cf ours; 

Upward, through its blood and ashes, spring afresh the Eden 

flowers ; 
From its smoking hell of battle, Love and Pity send their 

prayer, 
And still thy white -winged angels hover dimly in our air. 



The Things in the Bottom Drawer. 

tHERE are whips and tops and pieces of strings, 
There are shoes which no little feet wear; 
There are bits Of ribbon and broken rings 

And tresses of golden hair; 
There are little dresses folded away 
Out of the light of the sunny day. 

There are dainty jackets that never are worn, 

There are toys and models of ships, 
There are books and pictures, all faded and torn, 

And marked by the finger tips 
Of dimpled hands that have fallen to dust, 
Yet I strive to think that the Lord is just. 



But a feeling of bitterness fills my soul 
Sometimes when I try to pray, 



TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 329 

That the reaper has spared so many flowers, 

And taken mine away. 
And I almost doubt if the Lord can know 
That a mother's heart can love them so. 

Then I think of the many weary ones 
Who are waiting and watching to-night 

For the slow return of faltering feet 

That have strayed from the paths of right; 

Who have darkened their lives by shame and sin, 

Whom the snares of the tempter have gathered in. 

They wander far in distant climes, 

They perish by fire and flood, 
And their hands are black with the direst crimes 

That kindled the wrath of God. 
Yet a mother's song has soothed them to rest; 
She hath lulled them to slumber upon her breast. 

And when I think of my children three, 

My babies that never grow old, 
And know they are waiting and watching for me 

In the city with streets of gold, 
Safe, safe from the cares of the weary years, 

From sorrow and sin and war, 
And I thank my God with falling tears 

For the things in the bottom drawer. 



TEEASUEES FEOM THE POETIC WOELD. 



Abou Ben Adhem. 



JBOU Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase) 
Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace, 
And saw within the moonlight in his room, 
Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom, 
An angel writing in a book of gold: — 
Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold, 
And to the Presence in the room he said, 
"What writest thou?" — The vision raised its head, 
And, with a look made of all sweet accord, 
Answered, "The names of those who love the Lord." 
"And is mine one?" said Abou. "Nay, not so," 
Beplied the Angel. Abou spoke more low, 
But cheerily still; and said, "I pray thee, then, 
Write me as one that loves his fellow-men." 



The Angel wrote and vanished. The next night 

It came again with a great wakening light, 

And showed the names whom love of God had blessed* 

And lo! Ben Adhem' s name led all the rest! 




TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 331 



Reveries at a Mother's Grave. 

I HE trembling dew-drops fall 

^ Upon the shutting flowers — like souls at rest; 
The stars shine gloriously — and all, 
Save me, is blest. 

Mother! — I love thy grave! 

The violet, with the blossom blue and mild, 
"Waves o'er thy head — when shall it wave 
Above thy child? 

'Tis a sweet flower — yet must 

Its bright leaves to the coming tempest bow, 
Dear mother — 'tis thine emblem — dust 
Is on thy brow! 

And I could love to die — 

To leave untasted life's dark, bitter streams, v 
By thee, as erst in childhood lie, 
And share thy dreams. 

And must I linger here 

To stain the plumage of my sinless years, 
And- mourn the hopes of childhood dear 
With bitter tears? 






332 TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD, 

Aye — must I linger here, 

A lonely branch upon a blasted tree, 
Whose last frail leaf, untimely sere, 
Went down with thee? 

Oft from life's withered bower, 

In still communion with the past I turn 
And muse on thee, the only flower 
In memory's urn. 

And, when the evening pale 

Bows like a mourner on the dim, blue wave, 
I stray to hear the night winds wail 
Around thy grave. 

Why is thy spirit flown? 

I gaze above — thy look is imaged there — 
I listen, and thy gentle tone 
Is on the air. 

Oh, come — while here I press 

My brow upon thy grave — and, in those mild 
And thrilling tones of tenderness, 
Bless, bless thy child! 

Yes, bless thy weeping child, 

And o'er thy urn— religion's holiest shrine — 
Oh, give his spirit undefiled 
To blend with thine. 



TEEASUEES FEOM THE POETIC WORLD. 333 



Heme and Mother. 

HEAE the patter of childish feet, 
m. Out in the garden fair, 
And catch a glimpse of a sunny head, 

And I know my boy is there. 
But I let him roam at his own sweet will, 

For I know he'll come at last, 
To the safe retreat of his mother's arms, 
When his happy sport is past. 

I see through the door of the village school 

A boyish head bent low, 
As he works away at. his simple task, 

And the hours pass, oh, so slow! 
Till I hear a ringing, boyish shout, 

And I know it is my boy, 
Who again comes home when school is done, 

And is ever my pride and joy. 

I see a youth in his hopeful strength, 

Starting out on life's proud highway, 
And again when his fortune he's carving out, 

Little by little each day, 
And when with his work he is wearied out, 

His new friends beguile him in vain; 
For he turns as he did in boyhood's days, 

To home and mother again. 



334 



TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 



I see him again in his manhood's prime; 

Fame, Fortune are both his own. 
He is reaping at last the fruits of his toil, 

The harvest his hand has sown. 
But e'en in the press of his busy life, 

When harassed by toil or care, 
His steps turn back to the dear old home, 

Where his mother awaits him there. 

And so with us all, when wearied and worn 

With pleasure or work or grief, 
We long for home, our faithful friends, 

And there we find sweet relief. 
And when worn out with the life-work here, 

We go, but oh! not alone, 
But dwell with our Master in peace and joy, 

And hear from His lips, "Well done." 




TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 335 



Tired Mothers. 

f\h LITTLE elbow leans upon your knee — 
*v\V Your tired knee that has so much to bear- 
A child's dear eyes are looking lovingly 

From underneath a thatch of tangled hair. 
Perhaps you do not heed the velvet touch 

Of warm, moist fingers holding you so tight; 
You do not prize the blessing overmuch — 

You almost are too tired to pray to-night. 

But it is blessedness! A year ago 

I did not see it as I do to-day — 
We are all so dull and thankless, and too slow 

To catch the sunshine till it slips away. 
And now it seems surpassing strange to me 

That while I wore the badge of motherhood 
I did not kiss more oft and tenderly 

The little child that brought me only good. 

And if, some night, when you sit down to rest, 

You miss the elbow from your tired knee; 
This restless curly head from off your breast; 

This lisping tongue that chatters constantly; 
If from your own the dimpled hands had slipped, 

And ne'er would nestle in your palm again; 
If the white feet into the grave had tripped — 

I could not blame you for your heartache then. 



336 TREASURES EROM THE POETIC WORLD. 

I wonder so that mothers ever fret 

At their little children clinging to their gowns; 
Or that the footprints, when the day is wet, 

Are ever "black enough to make them frown! 
If I could find a little muddy boot, 

Or cap, or jacket, on my chamber floor — 
If I could kiss a rosy, restless foot, 

And hear it patter in my house once more; 

If I could mend a broken cart to-day, 

To-morrow make a kite to reach the sky — 
There is no woman in God's world could say 

She was more blissfully content than I! 
But ah, the dainty pillow next mine own 

Is never rumpled by a shining head, 
My singing birdling from its nest is flown — 

The little boy I used to kiss — is dead! 







TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 337 



The Children's Hour. 



7 ) ETWEEN the dark and the daylight, 
'/ When the night is beginning to lower, 
Comes a pause in the day's occupations, 
That is known as the children's hour. 



I hear in the chamber above me 

The patter of little feet; 
The sound of a door that is opened, 

And voices soft and sweet. 

From my study I see in the lamplight, 
Descending the brood hall stair, 

Grave Alice, and laughing Allegre, 
And Edith with golden hair. 

A whisper and then a silence, 
Yet I know by their merry eyes 

They are plotting and planning together 
To take me by. surprise. 

A sudden rush from the stairway; 

A sudden raid from the hall; 
By three doors left unguarded 

They enter my castle -wall. 
22 



338 TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 

They climb up into my turret, 
O'er the arms and back of my chair; 

If I try to escape, they surround me; 
They seem to be everywhere. 

They almost devour me with kisses, 
Their arms about me entwine, 

Till I think of the Bishop of Bingen, 
In his Mouse-Tower on the Bhine. 

Do you think, blue-eyed banditti, 
Because you have scaled the wall, 

Such an old mustache as I am 
Is not a match for you all? 

I have you fast in my fortress, 
And will not let you depart, 

But put you into the dungeon, 
In the round-tower of my heart. 

And there will I keep you forever — 

Yes, forever and a day; 
Till the walls shall crumble to ruin, 

And moulder in dust away. 





OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. 



TEEASUEES FEOM THE POETIC WOELD. 339 



OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. 



Oliver Wendell Holmes was born at Cambridge, 
Mass., August 29, 1809, and at this time (1882), he 
occupies the chair of Anatomy and Physiology in Har- 
vard University. At the age of twenty, Holmes gradu- 
ated at Harvard, and commenced the study of law. 
Law was soon abandoned for medicine. He studied in 
Europe, and in 1836 graduated at Cambridge as doctor 
of medicine. In 1838 he became professor of Anatomy 
and Physiology in Dartmouth College, ■ and in 1847 
accepted the same position at Harvard. 

The following are among his literary works : Poetry, 
a Metrical Essay; Terpsichore; Urania; Astrcsa. The 
above poems were delivered before college and literary 
societies. He is also author of three excellent works, 
entitled Autocrat of the Breakfast Table, The Professor at 
the Breakfast Table, and The Poet at the Breakfast 
Table. Three other well known works of his are Elsie 
Venner, published in 1861 ; The Guardian Angel, in 1868 ; 
Mechanism in Thought and Morals, in 1872. 

Besides his excellent literary works already noted, 
lie is author of valuable medical works. 



340 



TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 



Although not a literary man by profession, yet he 
has written extensively, and has gained a high position 
in the literary world. His composition is always smooth 
and graceful, and many of his sayings are among the 
finest specimens of American humor. 

Holmes combines science and philosophy, wit and 
humor, in poetry and prose, in a most happy and 
brilliant manner. His poems, written for class reunions 
and other special occasions, are so happy that they 
make Holmes "the fountain of perpetual youth" in 
American literature. 




TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 341 



Poesy. 

[ERE breathes 



Ti 



HERE breathes no being but has some pretence 
To that fine instinct called poetic sense; 
The rudest savage roaming through the wild, 
The simplest rustic bending o'er his child, 
The infant listening to the warbling bird, 
The mother smiling at its half -formed word; 
The boy uncaged, who tracks the fields at large, 
The girl turned matron to her babe-like charge* 
The freeman casting with unpurchased hand 
The vote that shakes the turrets of the land; 
The slave, who, slumbering on his rusted chain, 
Dreams of the palm-trees on his burning plain; 
The hot-cheeked reveler, tossing down the wine, 
To join the chorus "Auld lang syne;" 
The gentle maid, whose azure eye grows dim, 
While Heaven is listening to her evening hymn; 
The jeweled beauty, when her steps draw near 
The circling dance and dazzling chandelier; 
E'en trembling age, when spring's renewing air 
"Waves the thin ringlets of his silvered hair, — 
All, all are glowing with the inward flame, 
Whose wider halo wreathes the poet's name, 
While, unembalmed, the silent dreamer dies, 
His memory passing with his smiles and sighs. 
If glorious visions, born for all mankind, 



342 TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 

The bright auroras of our twilight mind; 
If fancies, varying as the shapes that lie 
Stained on the windows of the sunset sky; 
If hopes, that beckon with delusive gleams, 
Till the eye dances in the void of dreams; 
If passions, following with the winds that urge 
Earth's wildest wanderer to her farthest verge,- 
If these on all some transient hours bestow 
Of rapture tingling with its heroic glow, 
Then all are poets; and, if earth had rolled 
Her myriad centuries, and her doom were told, 
Each moaning billow of her shoreless wave 
Would wail its requiem o'er a poet's grave. 



The Old Man's Dream. 

/|HkH, for one hour of youthful joy! 
VtK Give back my twentieth spring! 
I'd rather laugh a bright-haired boy, 
Than reign a gray-haired king. 

Off with the wrinkled spoils of age! 

Away with learning's crown; 
Tear out life's wisdom-written page, 

And cast its trophies down. 



TKEASUKES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 

One moment let my life-blood stream 
From boyhood's fount to fame; 

Give me one giddy, reeling dream 
Of life, and love and fame. 

My listening angel heard the prayer, 

And calmly smiling, said: 
"If I but touch thy silvered hair, 

Thy hasty wish had sped. 

"But is there nothing in the track, 

To bid thee fondly stay, 
While the swift seasons hurry back, 

To find the wished-for day?" 

"Ah, truest soul of womankind, 
Without thee what were life? 

One bliss I can not leave behind — 
I'll take my precious wife." 

The angel took a sapphire pen, 

And wrote in rainbow hue, 
"The man would be a boy again, 

And be a husband, too." 

i 

"And is there nothing yet unsaid, 

Before the change appears? 
Remember all thy gifts have fled 

With these dissolving years." 



344 TEEASUEES FEOM THE POETIC WOELD. 

"Why, yes, I would one favor more: 

My fond parental joys — 
I couldn't bear to lose them all; 

I'll take my girls and boys." 

The smiling angel dropped his pen — 
"Why, this will never do; 

The man would be a boy again, 
And be a father, too!" 

And so I laughed. My laughter woke 
The household with its noise; 

I wrote my dream when morning came, 
To please my girls and boys. 




TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 345 



The Old Man Meditates. 

HjAY, Maggie, let my old-style fancies be — 
AjW I'm sorry that you interrupted me! 
'Tis sweet to press a pretty hand like this, 
And taste the flavor of a grandchild's kiss; 
I love to draw you to me tender-wise, 
And look off at my boyhood through your eyes 
(For they are telescopes of wondrous view, 
That bring me back a girl that looked like you); 
Your voice is, as you just now used it last, 
A silver key that takes me through the past; 
And now you're here, you girl- witch, you shall stay, 
But still I'd rather you had kept away. 

For I've been sitting here an hour, I'll own, 
Catching some thoughts a man holds best alone, 
And shadows on my poor old soul have found 
That might feel chilly like to folks around. 
I've seen the sun go sailing out of sight, 
Far from the gloomy, shifting shores of night, 
And wondered (though perhaps 'twas wicked) why 
God would not swing those gold doors of the sky 
And take me from this world, that's grown so strange, 
To heaven, where maybe fashions do not change; 
For I am like a gnarled and withered tree 
With a new growth of forest shading me. 



346 TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 

The world keeps newing so! — they fashion it 
So old men find no place wherein to fit. 
"On, and right on," leaps hot from every tongue; 
"Live while you five," and "go it while you're young." 
An average, moderate fife, if these things last, 
Will be among the lost arts of the past; 
These rushing days of lightning and of steam 
Push everything out into an extreme. 
The rich grow richer, smarter grow the smart; 
. It's harder for the rest to get a start; 
And Wholesale grows more Wholesale every day, 
And Eetail has to stand back out of the way. 
It's hard to tell 'mid all progression's jumps, 
How far this world •■will make up into lumps. 
Farewell, old churn, with dasher fringed with cream, 
These times when cows are all but milked by steam, 
And in the bustling dairy may be found 
Butter by tons, instead of by the pound, 
While several of the corner groceries keep 
Its bogus brother, oleomargarine, cheap! 

Good-by, old country mill of water-power: 

This steam one does your week's work in an hour! 

Adieu, gas, tallow, kerosene, and whale: 

The blue-eyed, earth-born lightning makes you pale! 

You sailing craft, make wide your fluttering crown, 

Lest the great fire-fed frigate run you down! 

Old-fashioned politics, cease your mild strife, 

When men can say, "An office or your life!" 

And you, small rogues, ere you so guilty feel 



TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. . 347 

Because a thousand dollars you may steal, 
Look at that scamp of sanctimonious style 
"Who pilfers millions with a charming smile! 

Once I my sorrel nag in peace could drive, 

With some fair chance of reaching home alive; 

Now, every other mile a sign-board bars 

With "Bailroad Crossing: look out for the Cars." 

These cars — they carry thousands in a day, 

And maybe take some that had better stay; 

While often in a crash of wail and woe, 

They take folks where they do not want to go! 

And I have heard and read distressing things 

Of railroad cliques, monopolies, and rings: 

I've tried to understand their "stock reports," 

Their "bulls" and "bears," their curious "longs" and "shorts"; 

Wherefrom the most that I can calculate 

Is, if to fall among them is your fate, 

Your heart, ere many months, will sing the song, 

"My pocket's short, my countenance is long." 

It may be right, the way these fellows do it! 

But old men can not fit themselves down to it! 

Once all my worries (and a plenty too) 
Were kind of circumscribed to folks I knew; 
But now the telegraph and papers try 
To bring this whole world underneath the eye, 
And my old fool heart into sorrow drive 
O'er deaths of folks I didn't know were alive. 



348 TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WOULD. 

It is an interesting fact to know 

That news can sweep across the country so; 

But it gets out of breath, I calculate, 

And sometimes fails to tell the story straight; 

And talk that's false, or frivolous, or too small, 

The slower it goes, the better for us all. 

It's smart, this flashing news from shore to shore, 

But old men value peace a good deal more. 

In the hay field how gallant and how blithe 

Sang their loud song my whetstone and my scythe! 

How in the dewy morning used to pass 

My bright blade's whisper through the shuddering grass! 

And gayly in the harvest fields of old 

My sickle gathered God's most precious gold. 

But now the patent reaper rattles there, 

The men it drove out gone — the Lord knows where. 

It brags and rattles through the field in haste, 

Gathers the harvest — what it does not waste — 

And leaves not much for poor old men like me, 

Except to sit upon the fence and see. 

God bade man till the soil; but it would seem 

He's shirked it off on horses, steel and steam. 

It's well — if he don't use the extra time 

In wicked mischief or mischievous crime. 

This giving work the go-by may be smart, 

But, I have noticed, doesn't improve the heart, 

I know I'm 'way behind these rushing days, 

But still I like the good old working ways. 



TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 349 

Your grandam made her own trim wedding dre^s, 

And fitted it, and wove it too, I guess; 

There never, Maggie, was a witching elf 

That went past her — not even you yourself. 

You have her gentle eyes, her voice, her touch — 

But, sakes! you cost a hundred times as much! 

They've had to flute, and flounce, and trick you out 

(It wouldn't be safe to mention, I suppose, 

That horror-hat you keep for evening shows), 

And squeeze, and pull and jerk you all about, 

Till it's a question rather hard to meet, 

How you came through it all so good and sweet. 

You Wouldn't have had to bother in that way 

If some cute Yankee had not, one fine day, 

Placed, with eyes made by money-hunger keen, 

A sewing circle in one small machine, 

Which hungers after cloth and thread; and so 

Dress often takes up some new furbelow. 

My old-style pocket with gaunt pain it fills; 

But I won't groan — I do not pay the bills. 

Church matters, maybe, ain't for me to name, 
For true religion always keeps the same; 
And they may higgle, contradict, and doubt, 
And turn the good old Bible wrong side out; 
But they can't change, however hard they try, 
Arrangements on the top side of the sky. 
I like to read the new way that 'tis told — 
It often helps me understand the old; 
But when my daily prayers I come to say, 



350 TEEASUEES FEOM THE POETIC WOELD.' 

I think I'll use the straight old-fashioned way. 

He taught that grand old prayer to us, you know — 

'Twas more than eighteen hundred years ago; 

And if its words were any way amiss. 

He'd probably have told us long ere this. 

Leastways, He's heard me, so far in that style, 

And I'll hang to it yet a little while. 

Ah me! this matter's just like all the rest: 

Old ways for old men mostly are the best. 

But whatsoever changes I can name, 

One institution always keeps the same, 

And soon or late enacts its noble part, 

And that's the grand and glorious human heart, 

Perhaps it lurks in wretchedness and slime, 

Is dragged by passion through the waves of crime; 

Or indolence around its couch may creep, 

And lull it for a season into sleep; 

Or selfishness may ravage all about, 

Eat its supplies and well-nigh starve it out; 

But when it can the body's grossness shed, 

The god-like human heart comes out ahead ! 

No, Maggie, do not go away from me, 

But turn your eyes round here where I can see; 

They show me that there's much that earth can give 

Designed to coax an old man yet to live. 

The tender, true heart you have always shown 

In brightening up my dim life with your own, 

The way you've treated me — with as much grace 







TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 351 

As if I owned three-quarters of this place, 
While you and all your folks are well aware 
My purse is full of poverty to spare — 
Show, in the sandy shifting of life's ways, 
That love's first fashion still among us stays; 
And that young fellow coming down the lane 
Will help to make my meaning doubly plain. 



The Launching cf the Ship. 

f |LL is finish'd! and at length 
V '#* Has come the bridal day 
Of beauty and of strength. 
To-day the vessel shall be launch'd! 
With fleecy clouds the sky is blanch'd, 
And o'er the bay, 
Slowly, in all his splendors dight, 
The great sun rises to behold the sight. 

The ocean old, 

Centuries old, 

Strong as youth, and as uncontroll'd, 

Paces restlessly to and fro, 

Up and down the sands of gold. 

And far and wide, 



352 



TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 



His beating heart is not at rest, 

With ceaseless flow, 

His beard of snow — 

Heaves with the heaving of his breast. 

He waits impatiently for his bride. 

There she stands, 

With her foot upon the sands, 

Deck'd with flags and streamers gay, 

In honor of her marriage day, 

Her snow-white signals fluttering, blending, 

Bound her like a veil descending, 

Eeady to be 

The bride of the gay, old sea. 



Then the Master, 

With a gesture of command, 

Waved his hand; 

And at the word, 

Loud and sudden there was heard, 

All around them and below, 

The sound of hammers, blow on blow, 

Knocking away the shores and spurs. 

And see! she stirs! 

She starts! she moves! she seems to feel 

The thrill of life along her keel, 

And, spurning with her foot the ground, 

With one exulting, joyous bound, 

She leaps into the ocean's arms! 



TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 353 

And lo! from the assembled crowd 
There rose a shout prolong' d and loud, 
That to the ocean seem'd to say, 
"Take her, bridegroom, old and gray; 
Take her to thy protecting arms, 
With all her youth and all her charms." 

How beautiful she is! how fair 

She lies within those arms, that press 

Her form with many a soft caress 

Of tenderness and watchful care! 

Sail forth into the sea, ship! 

Through wind and wave, right onward steer! 

The moisten 'd eye, the trembling lip, 

Are not the signs of doubt or fear. 

Sail forth into the sea of life, 
gentle, loving, trusting wife, 
And safe from all adversity, 
Upon that bosom of that sea 
Thy comings and thy goings be! 
For gentleness, and love, and trust, 
Prevail o'er angry wave and gust; 
And in the wreck of noble lives, 
Something immortal still survives! 

Thou, too, sail on, ship of state! 
Sail on, Union, strong and great! 
Humanity, with all its fears, 
With all the hopes of future years, 

23 



354 



TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD 



Is hanging breathless on thy fate! 
We know what Master laid thy keel, 
What workmen wrought thy ribs of steel, 
Who made each mast, and sail, and rope, 
What anvils rang, what hammers beat, 
In what a forge, and what a heat, 
Were shaped the anchors of thy hope. 

Pear not each sudden sound and shock; 

'Tis of the wave and not the rock; 

'Tis but the flapping of the sail 

And not a rent made by the gale. 

In spite of rock and tempest roar, 

In spite of false lights on the shore, 

Sail on, nor fear to breast the sea; 

Our hearts, our hopes, are all with thee; 

Our heart, our hopes, our prayers, our tears, 

Our faith triumphant o'er our fears, 

Are all with thee, are all with thee! 




TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 355 



Rhyme of the Rail. 

INGING through the forests, 
Battling over ridges, 
Shooting under arches, 

Bumbling over bridges, 
"Whizzing through the mountains, 

Buzzing o'er the vale, 
Bless me! this is pleasant, 
Biding on the rail! 

Men of different stations, 

In the eye of Fame, 
Here are very quickly 

Coming to the same; 
High and lowly people, 

Birds of every feather, 
On a common level, 

Traveling together! 

Gentlemen in shorts, 

Looming very tall; 
Gentlemen at large, 

Talking very small; 
G-entlemen in tights, 

With a loose-ish mien; 
Gentlemen in gray, 

Looking rather green! 



356 



TREASURES ' FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 



Gentlemen quite old, 

Asking for the news; 
Gentlemen in black, 

In a fit of blues; 
Gentlemen in claret, 

Sober as a vicar; 
Gentlemen in tweed, 

Dreadfully in liquor! 

Stranger on the right, 

Looking very sunny, 
Obviously reading 

Something rather funny. 
Now the smiles are thicker, 

Wonder what they mean? 
Faith, he's got the Knicker- 

Bocker Magazine! 

Stranger on the left, 

Closing up his peepers 
Now he snores amain, 

Like the seven sleepers; 
At his feet a volume 

Gives the explanation, 
How the man grew stupid 

From "association!" 



Ancient maiden lady 
Anxiously remarks 



TBEASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 857 

That there must be peril 

'Mong so many sparks; 
Roguish-looking fellow, 

Turning to the stranger, 
Says 'tis his opinion 

She is out of danger 1 

Woman with her baby 

Sitting vis-a-vis; 
Baby keeps a-squalling, 

Woman looks at me; 
Asks about the distance; 

Says, 'tis tiresome talking, 
Noises of the car 

Are so very shocking! 

Market woman, careful 

Of the precious casket, 
Knowing eggs are eggs, 

Tightly holds her basket; 
Feeling that a smash, 

If it came, would surely 
Send her eggs to pot, 

Rather prematurely! 

Singing through the forests, 

Rattling over ridges, 
Shooting under arches, 

Rumbling over bridges, 



358 



TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 



Whizzing through the mountains. 

Buzzing o'er the vale, 
Bless me! this is pleasant, 

Biding on the rail! 



John Burns, of Gettysburg. 



I ,*AVE you heard the story that gossips tell 
f[f Of Burns of Gettysburg?— No? Ah, well: 
Brief is the glory that hero earns, 
Briefer the story of poor John Burns: 
He was the fellow who won renown, — 
The only man who didn't back down 
When the rebels rode through his native town: 
But held his own in the fight next day, 
When all his townsfolk ran away. 
That was in July, sixty-three, 
The very day that General Lee, 
Flower of Southern chivalry, 
Baffled and beaten, backward reeled 
From a stubborn Meade and a barren field. 
I might tell how, but the day before, 
John Burns stood at his cottage-door, 
Looking down the village street, 
Where, in the shade of his peaceful vine, 



TEEASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 359 

He heard the low of his gathered kine, 

And felt their breath with incense sweet; 

Or I might say when the sunset burned 

The old farm gable, he thought it turned 

The milk that fell, in a babbling flood 

Into the milk-pail, red as blood! 

Or how he fancied the hum of bees 

Were bullets buzzing among the trees. 

But all such fanciful thoughts as these 

Were strange to a practical man like Burns, 

Who minded only his own concerns, 

Troubled no more by fancies- fine 

Than one of his calm-eyed, long-tailed kine,- 

Quite old-fashioned and matter-of-fact, 

Slow to argue, but quick to act. 

That was the reason, as some folks say, 

He fought so well on that terrible day. 

And it was terrible. On the right 

Baged for hours the heavy fight, 

Thundered the battery's double bass, — 

Difficult music for men to face; 

While on the left — where now the graves 

Undulate like the living waves 

That all that day unceasing swept 

Up to the pits the rebels kept — 

Bound- shot ploughed the upland glades, 

Sown with bullets, reaped with blades; 

Shattered fences here and there 

Tossed their splinters in the air; 

The very trees were stripped and bare; 



360 



TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 



The barns that once held yellow grain 
Were heaped with harvests of the slain; 
The cattle bellowed on the plain, 
The turkeys screamed with might and main, 
And brooding barn-fowl left their rest, 
With strange shells bursting in each nest. 

Just where the tide of battle turns, 
Erect and lonely stood old John Burns. 
How do you think the man was dressed? 
He wore an ancient long buff vest, 
Yellow as saffron, — but his best; 
And, buttoned over his manly breast, 
Was a bright blue coat, with rolling collar, 
And large gilt buttons, — size of a dollar, — 
With tails that the country-folk called "swaller.' 
He wore a broad-brimmed, bell-crowned hat, 
White as the locks on which it sat. 
Never had such a sight been seen 
For forty years on the village green, 
Since old John Burns was a country beau 
And went to the "quiltings" long ago. 



Close at his elbows all that day, 

Veterans of the Peninsula, 

Sunburnt and bearded, charged away; 

And striplings, downy of lip and chin, — 

Clerks that the Home Guard mustered in, — 

Glanced, as they passed, at the hat he wore, 

Then at the rifle his right hand bore; 



TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 361 

And hailed him, from out their youthful lore, 

With scraps of a slangy repertoire: 

"How are you, White Hat?" "Put her through." 

"Your head's level," and "Bully for you!" 

Called him "Daddy," — begged he'd disclose 

The name of the tailor who made his clothes, 

And what was the value he set on those; 

While Burns, unmindful of jeer and scoff, 

Stood there picking the rebels off, — 

With his long brown rifle, and bell-crown hat, 

And the swallow-tails they were laughing at. 

'Twas but a moment, for that respect 

Which clothes all courage their voices checked, 

And something the wildest could understand 

Spake in the old man's strong right hand; 

And his corded throat, and the lurking frown 

Of his eyebrows under his old bell- crown; 

Until, as they gazed, there crept an awe 

Through the ranks in whispers, and some men saw 

In the antique vestments and long white hair, 

The Past of the Nation in battle there; 

And some of the soldiers since declare 

That the gleam of his old white hat afar, 

Like the crested plume of the brave Navarre, 

That day was their oriflamme of. war. 

So raged the battle. You know the rest: 
How the rebels, beaten and backward pressed, 
Broke at the final charge and ran. 



362 



TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 



At which John Burns — a practical man — 
Shouldered his rifle, unbent his brows, 
And then went back to his bees and cows. 

That is the story of old John Burns: 
This is the moral the reader learns: 
In fighting the battle, the question's whether 
You'll show a hat that's white, or a feather! 



Heart of Sorrows. 

■JaEB path breaks off; she strikes some jutting wall, 
r\ / Night-hidden, thrust across; thereby a rock, 
Light-shaken, rolls: the tumult of its fall, 

The long, long silence and the far down shock 
Take all her breath. 
"For certain have I found" (so in her heart she saith) 
"The very haunts of Death." 



The mountain air, that should be blithe and loud, 
Blown dense with dripping vapor, doth not stir. 
She feels it cling as if it were a shroud: 

From earth and hell and heaven it covers her. 
If, fain to guide, 
Some torch-upholding Seraph tread the spaces wide, 
Yet will these shades abide. 



TREASUKES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 363 

Howbeit she, groping, finds a stony bed — 

Not strewn upon with cones of cedar sweet, 
But ragged, sharp to hurt; there rests her head, 
And will not shrink nor gather up her feet. 
"If this may be, 
And Death, through these abysmal gates, reach after me, 
All may be well" (saith she). 

So waits on sleep: but still some tempest-thought, 

Flame-winged, sweeps back that billow's soft advance: 
"And is this net-work of the flesh for naught" 
(She sighs), "but to be torn at every chance? 
Or doth it keep 
Some desert creature — ready for the outward leap, 
The rush, the tireless sweep? 

"0, Soul (and if there be a soul!) unmeet 
For pastures green and rivers of delight! 
For thou wert cavern-born and fierce and fleet; 
A thing unclean, a prowler of the night: 
Lo, fettered fast! 
What Power, moved by thy moans will set thee free, at last, 
To rove Saharas vast? 

"No doubt the Solitudes befit thee well: 

But how if One come shining o'er the sands, 
With tranquil eyes that evermore compel, 

And strange, converting touch of holy hands; 
In still accord 
(Upbraiding not), full gently leading thee toward 
The gardens of the Lord? — 



364 



TEEASUEES FEOM THE POETIC WOELD, 



"Deep set among the fair, eternal hills: 
With entrances of halsam- dropping fir 
And date sastaining-palm; where (since He wills) 
Thou shalt perceive, far off, the murmurous stir, 
The vestments white 
Of those melodious ones; and — shadowed safe from sigmV- 
Shalt dream thy dreams of light. 

"Musing how wondrous are the heights of fire! 

What cool and fruitful vales their spurs secrete! 
Awaiting, through hushed aeons of desire, 

Till thou shalt hear his voice, so loud, so sweet, 
With words that rule: 
'Arise, and enter in, thou who are white as wool, 
And let thy joy he full!' 

"And oh, the many streams from Leoanon! 

The pleasant winds that flow out East and West, 
From myrrh and frankmscense and cinnamon! 
And oh, the beds of spice whereon to rest! 
And oh, the King! 
Lilies and clustering flowers and vines behold him bring, 
About thy feet to cling! 

"Ah, me, the anguish, the devouring haste 

Of this, my soul, to touch the hands that save! 
But if there be no gardens — if the Waste 

Stretch boundless on from empty grave to grave, 
If shriek and curse 
And wail of farthest voices, through the universe. 
An infinite woe rehearse, — 



TEEASUEES FEOM THE POETIC WORLD. 365 

"Thou Soul, who rendest so the fleshly net, 

Set free and to the desert-sweeps out-cast — 
With all thy noon-tide thirst upon thee yet— 
Shalt load, with desolate cries, the arid blast: 
Or crouch and wait 
Beside the hitter springs, whose waters will not sate 
Thine everlasting hate! 

"But oh, to be so mocked! — where late I lay 

Choked, by that cruel Ganges thick with mire 
(Men call Love's river!); eyelids stiff with clay, 
Flung out to perish, scorched in winds of fire. 
Till One passed by, 
And drew me from the flood and whispered 'It is I: 
Behold, thou shall not die!' 

"How did my heart within me melt and yearn! 

What copious tears washed out my blinded eyes! 
Far up the silver steeps I saw him turn, 
Then vanish — gathered to the awful skies. 
And without rest 
I followed, but to kiss some rock his feet had pressed, 
And be forever blest! 

"The jostling crowds did cheer and buffet me 
Along the burning plains; at fall of night, 
Among the steep -set rocks, I shook to see 

Their olden beds up-torn by torrents white, — 
The sheer descent 
Beside whose soundless deeps I trod, fear-faint and spent, 
Nor found the way he went!" 



366 



TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 



Here lifting up her voice she cries aloud: 

"Sore-beaten by the dread four winds, that blow 
From crag to ciag the fell, red-bosomed cloud — 
Oh, yet I thought to climb and near him so! 
If still afar, 
Only to wait and worship, silent as a star, 
Where all the glaciers are." 

Upstarting from her bed as one who hears 

Supernal sighings and remote farewells, 
With crash of final bolts that lock the spheres, — 
"0, Thou Serene," she mourns, "whose love excels! 
I may not reach 
To clasp thy robe and weep, and of thy lips beseech 
Their honey-dropping speech; — 

"Engirt with deathful snares: yet hadst thou seen, 

Before the gulfs yawned black from North to South, 
How had thy tears of pity washed me clean! 
How had I felt the kisses of thy mouth! 
Now, without doubt, 
The very gates of hell — across the skies flung out — 
Have compassed me about!" 

Even at the word, from ledge to crevice steals 

An undulant motion as of opening graves, 
Or influent surges, when the sea unseals 

The strong, sepulchral door of ancient caves; 
Till, waxing bold, 
Earth sends her thunders out: beneath the mountain rolled, 
They cleave its bases old. 



TEEASUEES FEOM THE POETIC WOELD. 867 

With stroke on stroke, all down the wavering steep 

They cast this grieving one. But now a light 
Smites darkness out, from cope to center deep! 

Hurled through the white abyss in headlong flight — 
From mortal harms, 
The Angel of the torch, when Death nor hell alarms, 

Up-bears her in his arms- 
She lies upon his breast like drifted snow: 

"My Lord and thine hath sent for thee" (he saith); 
She feels the winds of paradise out-blow — 
Full fain is she to breathe their holy breath 
Aloes and myrrh — 
All the chief spices, with their wafting wings astir, 
Divinely comfort her* 

Such need hath soaring Love — the heavens make way; 

With all their stars they vanish as a scroll! 
The King's pavilions — beautiful are they: 
Behold, with sweets, he satisfies her soul! 
But I, less white, 
Among the clefts of rocks, with creatures of the night, 
Hide me in sore affright* 




368 



TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 



Old Times and New. 



t 



WAS in my easy chair at home, 
About a week ago, 
I sat and puffed my light cigar, 
As usual, you must know. 



I mused upon the Pilgrim flock, 

Whose luck it was to land 
Upon almost the only Eock 

Among the Plymouth sand. 

In my mind's eye, I saw them leave 

Their weather-beaten bark — 
Before them spread the wintry wilds, 

Behind, rolled Ocean dark. 

Alone that noble handful stood 
While savage foes lurked nigh — 

Their creed and watchword, "Trust in God, 
And keep your powder dry." 



Imagination's pencil then 

That first stern winter painted, 

When more than half their number died, 
And stoutest spirits fainted. 



TREASURES FEOM THE POETIC WOELD. 369 

A tear unbidden filled one eye, — 

My smoke had filled the other- 
One sees strange sights at such a time, 

Which quite the senses bother. 

I knew I was alone — but lo! 

(Let him who dares deride me;) 
I looked, and drawing up a chair, 

Down sat a man beside me. 

His dress was ancient, and his air 

Was somewhat strange and foreign; 
He civilly returned my stare, 

And said, "I'm Eichard Warren. 

"You'll find my name among the list 

Of hero, sage and martyr, 
Who, in the Mayflower's cabin, signed 

The first New England charter. 

"I could some curious facts impart- 
Perhaps some wise suggestions— 

But then I'm bent on seeing sights, 
And running o'er with questions." 

"Ask on," said I; "I'll do my best 

To give you information, 
Whether of private men you ask, 

Or our renowned nation." 

24 



370 



TKEASUEES FEOM THE POETIC WORLD. 



Says he, "First tell me what is that 
In your compartment narrow, 

Which seems to dry my eye-balls up, 
And scorch my very marrow." 



His finger pointed to the grate, 
Said I, "That's Lehigh coal, 

Dug from the earth," — he shook his 
"It is, upon my soul!" 



I then took up a bit of stick, 

One end as black as night, 
And rubbed it quick across the hearth, 

When, lo! a sudden light! 

My guest drew back, up rolled his eyes, 

And strove his breath to catch; 
'What necromancy's that?" he cried, 
Quoth I, "A friction match." 

Upon a pipe just overhead 

I turned a little screw. 
When forth, with instantaneous flash 

The streams of lightning flew. 



Uprose my guest: "Now Heaven me save," 

Aloud he shouted; then, 
"Is that hell fire?" " 'Tis gas" said I, 

"We call it hydrogen." 



TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 3'jrl 

Then forth unto the fields we strolled; 

A train came thundering by, 
Drawn by the snorting iron steed 

Swifter than eagles fly. 

Humbled the wheels, the whistle shrieked, 

Far streamed the smoky cloud; 
Echoed the hills; the valley shook, 

The flying forest bowed. 

Down on his knees, with hands upraised 

In worship, Warren fell; 
"Great is the Lord our God," cried he; 

"He doeth all things well. 

"I've seen his chariots of fire, 

The horsemen, too, thereof; 
Oh, may I ne'er forget his ire, 

Nor at his threatenings scoff." 

"Bise up, my friend, rise up,"* said I, 

"Your terrors all are vain, 
That was no chariot of the sky, 

'Twas the New York mail .train." 

We stood within a chamber small — 

Men came the news to know 
From Worcester, Springfield and New York, 

Texas and Mexico. 



372 



TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 



It came — it went — silent and sure — 
He stared, smiled, burst out laughing; 

"What witchcraft's that?" "It's what we call 
Magnetic Telegraphing." 

Once more we stepped into the street; 

Said Warren, "What is that 
Which moves along across the way 

As smoothly as a cat? 

"I mean the thing upon two legs 

With feathers on its head — 
A monstrous hump below its waist 

Large as a feather-bed. 

"It has the gift of speech, I hear; 

But sure, it can't be human!" 
'My amiable friend," said I, 
"That's what we call a woman!" 

"A woman! no — it can not be," 
Sighed he, with voice that faltered* 

"I loved the women in my day, 
But oh! they're strangely altered. 



I showed him then a new machine 
For turning eggs to chickens — 

A labor-saving hennery, 

That beats the very dickens! 



TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 373 

Thereat he strongly grasped my hand, 

And said, " 'Tis plain to see 
This world is so transmogrified 

'Twill never do for me. 

""Your telegraphs, your railroad trains, 

Your gas lights, friction matches, 
Your hump-backed women, rocks for coal, 

Your thing which chickens hatches, 

Have turned the earth so upside down, 

No peace is left within it;" 
Then whirling round upon his heel, 

He vanished in a minute. 



The Creeds of the Bells. 

lAOW sweet the chime of the Sabbath bells! 

* / Each one its creed in music tells, 
In tones that float upon the air 
As soft as song, as pure as prayer; 
And I will put in simple rhyme 
The language of the golden chime; 
My happy heart with rapture swells 
Eesponsive to the bells, sweet bells! 



374 



TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 



"In deeds of love excel! excel!" 
Chimed out from ivied towers a bell; 
"This is the church not built on sands, 
Emblem of one not built with hands; 
Its forms and sacred rites revere; 
Come worship here ! Come worship here ! 
In rituals and faith excel!" 
Chimed out the Episcopalian bell. 

"Oh, heed the ancient landmarks well!" 
In solemn tones exclaimed a bell. 
"No progress made by mortal man 
Can change the just, eternal plan; 
With God there can be nothing new; 
Ignore the false, embrace the true, 
While all is well! is well! is well! 
Pealed out the good old Dutch church bell. 

"Ye purifying waters, swell!" 
In mellow tones rang out a bell; 
"Though faith alone in Christ can save, 
Man must be plunged beneath the wave, 
To show the world unfaltering faith 
In what the Sacred Scriptures saith: 
Oh, swell! ye rising waters, swell!" 
Pealed out the clear-toned Baptist bell. 



"Not faith alone, but works as well, 
Must test the soul!" said a soft bell: 
"Come here and cast aside your load, 



TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 375 

And work your way along the road, 
With faith in God, and faith in man, 
And hope in Christ where hope began; 
Do well! do well! do well! do well!" 
Bang out the Unitarian bell. 

"Farewell! farewell! base world, forever!" 
In touching tones exclaimed a bell* 
"Life is a boon to mortals given 
To fit the soul for bliss in heaven; 
Do not invoke the avenging rod, 
Come here and learn the way to God! 
Say to the world, Farewell! farewell!" 
Pealed forth the Presbyterian bell. 

"To all the truth we tell! we tell!" 
Shouted in ecstacies a bell ; 
"Come, all ye weary wanderers, see! 
Our Lord has made salvation free! 
Eepent, believe, have faith, and then 
Be saved, and praise the Lord, Amen!" 
Salvation's free, we tell! we tell!" 
Shouted the Methodistic bell. 

"In after life there is no hell!" 
In raptures rang a cheerful bell; 
"Look up to heaven this holy day, 
"Where angels wait to lead the way; 
There are no fires no fiends to blight 



376 



TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 



The future life; be just and right. 
No hell! no hell! no hell! no hell!" 
Bang out the Universalist bell. 

"The Pilgrim Fathers heeded well 

My cheerful voice," pealed forth a bell; 

No fetters here to clog the soul; 

No arbitrary creeds control 

The free heart and progressive mind, 

That leave the dusty path behind. 

Speed well! speed well! speed well! speed well!" 

Pealed forth the Independent bell. 

"No pope, no pope, to doom to hell!" 
The Protestant rang out a bell; 
"Great Luther left his fiery zeal 
Within the hearts that truly feel 
That loyalty to God will be 
The fealty that makes men free. 
No images where incense fell!" 
Bang out old Martin Luther's bell. 



"All hail, ye saints in heaven that dwell 
Close by the cross!" exclaimed a bell; 
"Lean o'er the battlements of bliss, 
And deign to bless a world like this; 
Let mortals kneel before this shrine — 
Adore the water and the wine! 
All hail, ye saints, the chorus swell!" 
Chimed in the Eoman Catholic bell. 



TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 377 

"Ye workers who have toiled so well 
To save the race!" said a sweet bell; 
"With pledge, and badge, and banner, come, 
Each brave heart beating like a drum; 
Be royal men of noble deeds, 
For love is holier than creeds; 
Drink from the well, the well, the well!" 
In rapture rang the Temperance bell. 



Cabin Philosophy. 

I 



ES' turn de back log ober, dar — an' pull your stools 
*Y i up nigher, 

An' watch dat 'possum cookin' in de skillet by de fire: 
Lemme spread my legs out on de bricks to make my 

feelin's flown, 
An' I'll grin' you out a fac' or two, to take befo' you 

go- 
Now, in dese busy wukin' days, dey's changed de Scripter 

fashions, 
An' you needn't look to mirakuls to furnish you wid 

rations : 
Now, when you's wantin' loaves o' bread, you got to go 

an' fetch 'em, 



378 



TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 



An' ef vou's wantin' fishes, you mus' dig your wums an' 

ketch 'em. 
For you kin put it down as sartin dat de time is long 

gone by, 
When sassages an' taters use to rain fum out de sky! 

Ef you think about it keerfully, and put it to the tes', 

You'll diskivir dat de safes' plan is gin'ully de bes'; 

Ef vou stumble on a hornets'-nes' an' make de critters 

scatter, 
You need't stan' dar like a fool an' argerfy de matter; 
An' when de yaller fever comes an' settles all aroun', 
"Tis better dan de karanteen to shuffle out of town. 

Dar's heap o' dreadful music in de very fines' fiddle; 
A ripe an' mellow apple may be rotton in de middle; 
De wises' lookin trabeler may be, de bigges' fool; 
Dar's a lot o' solid kickin' in de humbles' kind o' mule; 
De preacher aint de holies' dat w'ars de meekes' look, 
An' does de loudes' bangin' on de kiver of de Book! 

De people pays deir bigges' bills in buyin' lots an' lan's; 
Dey scatter all deir picayunes aroun' de peanut stan's; 
De twenties an' de fiftier goes in payin' orf deir rents, 
But Heben an' de organ-grinder gits de copper cents. 



I nebber likes de cullud man dat thinks too much o' 

eaten ; 
Dat frolics froo de wukin' days, and snoozes at de 

meetin' ; 



TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 379 

Dat jines de Temp'rance 'Ciety, an' keeps a gettin' tight, 
An' pulls his water-millions in de middle ob de night! 

Dese milerterry nigger chaps, with muskets in deir han's, 

Perradin' froo de city to de music ob de ban's, 

Had better drop deir guns an' go to marchin' wid deir 

hoes 
An' git an honest libbin' as dey chop de cotton rows, 
Or de State may put 'em arter while to drillin' in de 

ditches, 
Wid more'n a single stripe a-running across deir 

breeches. 
"Well, you think dat doin' nuffin' 'tall is mighty sof an' 

nice, 
But it busted up de renters in de lubly paradise! 
You see, dey bofe was human bein's, jes' like me an 

you, 
An' dey couldn't reggerlate deiselves wid not a thing to 

do; 
Wid plenty wuk befo' 'em, an' a cotton crop to make, 
Dey'd nebber thought 0' loafin' 'roun' an chattin' wid de 

snake. 




380 



TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 



Seventeen and Seventy. 

/JNjH, Grandma sits in her oaken chair, 
VLj/ And in flies Bessie with tangled hair; 
"I'm going to be married, oh, grandmamma, 
I'm going to be married. Ha, ha! ha, ha!" 

Oh, grandma smooths out her apron string; 
"Do you know, my dear, 'tis a solemn thing?" 
" 'Tis solemner not to, grandmamma. 
I'm going to be married. Ha, ha! ha, ha!" 

Then grandma looks through her seventy years; 
And sums up a woman's hopes and fears; 
Six of 'em living and two of 'em dead; 
Grandpa helpless and tied to his bed. 

Nowhere to live when the house burned down; 
Years of fighting with old Mother Brown; 
Stockings to darn and bread to bake, 
Dishes to wash and dresses to make. 



But then the music of pattering feet, 
Grandpa's kisses so fond and sweet, 
Song and prattle the livelong day, 
Joy and kisses and love alway. 



TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 381 

Oh, grandma smooths out her apron string, 
And gazes down at her wedding ring, 
And still she smiles as she drops a tear, 
" 'Tis solemner not to. Yes, my dear." 



Footsteps of Angels. 

HEN the hours of day are numbered, 
And the voices of the night 
Wake the better soul that slumbered, 
In a holy, calm delight; 

Ere the evening lamps are lighted, 
And, like phantoms grim and tall, 

Shadows from the fitful fire-light 
Dance upon the parlor wall. 

Then the forms of the departed 

Enter at the open door; 
The beloved, the true-hearted, 

Come to visit me once more. 

He, the young and strong, who cherished 

Noble longings for the strife, 
By the roadside fell and perished, 

Weary with the march of life! 



382 



TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 



They, the holy ones and weakly, 
Who the cross of suffering bore, 

Folded their pale hands so meekly, 
Spake with us on earth no more! 

And with them the Being Beauteous, 
Who unto my youth was given, 

More than all things else to love me, 
And is now a saint in heaven. 

With a slow and noiseless footstep 
Comes the messenger divine, 

Takes the vacant chair beside me, 
Lays her gentle hand in mine. 

And she sits and gazes at me 
With those deep and tender eyes, 

Like the stars, so still and saint-like, 
Looking downward from the skies. 

Uttered not, yet comprehended, 
Is the spirit's voiceless prayer, 

Soft rebukes, in blessings ended, 
Breathing from her lips of air. 



Oh, though oft depressed and lonely, 
All my fears are laid aside, 

If I but remember only 

Such as these have lived and died. 




JAMES RUSSELL. LOWELL. 



TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 388 



JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 



James Eussell Lowell was born at Cambridge, 
Mass., February 22, 1819. He graduated at Harvard 
College. In 1855 he succeeded Longfellow as Professor 
of Modern Languages and Belles-lettres in Harvard. At 
this time (1882) Lowell is United States Minister to 
England. He belongs to a family noted for literary 
attainments. Judge Lowell, his grandfather, and Dr. 
Chas. Lowell, his father, were both highly accomplished. 
Several other relatives were men of culture, and J. E. 
Lowell has more than sustained the eminence of his 
ancestors and relatives. His wife, nee Maria White, was 
a poetess of excellent ability. 

At the age of twenty-two, Lowell commenced his 
work as author by the publication of a volume of poems 
entitled A Year's Life. The following gives the principal 
part of his literary record : — In 1844 appeared Poems; 
1845, Conversations on some of the Old Poets; JS48, third 
series of Poems, and the Bigelow Papers; 1869, Under the 
Willows and other Poems, and the Cathedral, an Epic 
Poem; 1870, prose essays entitled Among my Books; 1871, 
My Study Window. Lowell has also edited the poems of 
Marvel, Donne, Keats, Wordsworth and Shelley, and 
lectured on the British Poets. 



384 



TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 



In the Bigelow Papers, Lowell's genius appears to 
good advantage. "His humor is rich and original." He 
has no superior as a humorist, and he is one of the 
greatest critics the world has ever produced. One writer 
thinks that his learning and thought -power have spoiled 
a great poet to make a great critic. He excels in 
everything he undertakes. The following, from The Pres- 
ent Crisis, shows the broad and manly sweep of Lowell's 
powerful pen: 



"When a deed is done for freedom, through the broad earth's 

aching breast 
Buns a thrill of joy prophetic, trembling on from east to 

west, 
And the slave, where'er he cowers, feels the soul within him 

climb 
To the awful verge of manhood, as the energy sublime 
Of a century, bursts full-blossomed on the thorny stem of time! 




TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 385 



The Fountain. 

jjJNTO the sunshine, 
JJD Full of the light, 
Leaping and flashing 
From morn till night! 

Into the moonlight, 
Whiter than snow, 

"Waving so flower-like 
When the winds blow! 

Into the starlight, 
Eushing in spray, 

Happy at midnight, 
Happy by day! 

Ever in motion, 

Blithesome and cheery, 
Still climbing heavenward, 

Never aweary; 

Glad of all weathers, 
Still seeming best, 

Upward or downward 
Motion thy rest; 

25 



386 



TEEASUEES FEOM THE POETIC WOELD, 



Full of a nature 
Nothing can tame, 

Changed every moment, 
Ever the same; 

Ceaseless aspiring, 

Ceaseless content, 
Darkness or sunshine 

Thy element; 

Glorious fountain! 

Let my heart be 
Fresh, changeful, constant, 

Upward, like thee! 



The Changeling. 

)HAD a little daughter, 
And she was given to me 
To lead me gently backward 

To the Heavenly Father's knee, 
That I, by the force of nature, 

Might in some dim wise divine 
The depth of His infinite patience 
To this wayward soul of mine. 



TKEASUBES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 387 

I know not how others saw her, 

But to me she was wholly fair, 
And the light of the heaven she came from 

Still lingered and gleamed in her hair; 
For it was as wavy and golden, 

And as many changes took, 
As the shadows of the sun-gilt ripples 

On the yellow bed of a brook. 

To what can I liken her smiling 

Upon me, her kneeling lover, — 
How it leaped from her lips to her eyelids, 

And dimpled her wholly over, 
Till her outstretched hands smiled also, 

And I almost seemed to see 
The very heait of her mother 

Sending sun through her veins to me! 

She had been with us scarce a twelve-month, 

And it hardly seemed a day, 
When a troop of wandering angels 

Stole my little daughter away; 
Or perhaps those heavenly Zincili 

But loosed the hampering strings, 
And when they had opened her cage-door, 

My little bird used her wings. 

But they left in her stead a changeling, 

A little angel child, 
That seems like her bud in full blossom, 



388 



TREASURES EROM THE POETIC WORLD. 



And smiles as she never smiled: 
When I wake in the morning, I see it 

Where she always used to He, 
And I feel as weak as a violet 

Alone 'neath the awful sky; 



As weak, yet as trustful, also; 

For the whole year long I see 
AH the wonders of faithful nature 

Still worked for the love of me; 
Winds wander, and dews drip earthward, 

Bain falls, suns rise and set, ■ 
Earth whirls, and all but to prosper 

A poor little violet! 



This child is not mine, as the first was, 

I cannot sing it to rest, 
I cannot lift it up fatherly 

And bless it upon my breast; 
Yet it lies in my little one's cradle 

And sits in my little one's chair, 
And the light of the heaven she's gone to 

Transfigures its golden hair! 




TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 389 



The Briefless Barrister. 



N attorney was taking a turn, 
In shabby habiliments drest; 
His coat it was shockingly worn, 
And the rust had invested his vest. 

His breeches had suffer'd a breech, 
His linen and worsted were worse; 

He had scarce a whole crown in his hat, 
And not half a crown in his purse. 

And thus as he wander'd along, 
A cheerless and comfortless elf, 

He sought for relief in a song, 

Or complainingly talk'd to himself: 

"Unfortunate man that I am! 

I've never a client but grief; 
The case is, I've no case at all, 

And, in brief, I've ne'er had a brief! 

"I've waited and waited in vain, 
Expecting an 'opening' to find, 
Where an honest young lawyer might gain 
Some reward for the toil cf Lis mind. 



390 



TKEASUEES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 



"'Tis not that I'm wanting in law, 

Or lack an intelligent face, 
That others have cases to plead, 

While I have to plead for a case. 

"Oh, how can a modest young man 
E'er hope for the smallest progression? 

The profession's already so full 
Of lawyers so full of profession!" 

While thus he was strolling around, 

His eye accidentally fell 
On a very deep hole in the ground, 

And he sighed to himself, "It is well!" 

To curb his emotions, he sat 

On the curb- stone the space of a minute, 
Then cried, "Here's an op'ning at last!" 

And in less than a jiffy was in it! 

Next morning twelve citizens came, 
('Twas the coroner bade them attend,) 

To the end that it might be determin'd 
How the man had determin'd his end. 



"The man was a lawyer, I hear," 

Quoth the foreman, who sat on the corse; 

"A lawyer? Alas!" said another, 
"Undoubtedly he died of remorse!" 



TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 391 

A third said, "He knew the deceas'd, 
An attorney well vers'd in the laws, 

And as to the cause of his death, 

'Twas, no doubt, from the want of a cause." 

The jury decided at length, 

After solemnly weighing the matter, 
"That the lawyer was drown-ded, because 

He couldn't keep his head above water!" 



Garfield. 



a 1 OBN in a lovely western wild, 
r/ And cradled on a cabin floor, 
He labored, when a little child, 

To keep the gaunt wolf from the door. 
With helpful hands he loved to toil; 

He worked with youthful might and main; 
He felled the trees, he dug the soil, 
His widowed mother to maintain. 

"What visions must his soul have seen! 

What dreams of glory and delight, 
When 'neath the silver stars serene, 

He walked the tow-path through the night! 



392 



TREASURES FEOM THE POETIC WORLD. 



What grand hopes must have helped him on, 
While in his garret-room he bent 

O'er tasks, till evening hours were gone 
And early morning hours were spent. 

He struggled on till youth was passed; 

He lived unknown to worldly fame; 
He won strong friends, whose love will last; 

He worked for wisdom, and it came, 
'Mid pinching poverty and pain. 

His bright career was well begun — 
He aided others to obtain 

The knowledge he had nobly won. 

When through the shuddering Southern air 

Men heard the boom of Sumter's guns; 
When flashed the tidings everywhere, 

"Columbia calls her noblest sons;" 
He left his dear young wife and child, 

His peaceful books, the sword to wield; 
His happy home to face the wild 

And awful horrors of the field! 



No terror filled his fearless soul; 

He dealt his foemen blow for blow; 
He never lost his self-control, 

Or turned his back upon the foe. 
He won his way to worthy fame, 

His form was foremost in the fray; 
A grateful nation learned his name 

On Chickamauga's dreadful day. 



TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 393 

He rose to honor by his worth, 

Nor grew to greatness by a crime; 
His name shall shine through all the earth, 

A landmark in the way of time. 
His good name made the envious writhe — 

They sought to soil his fair renown; 
Like weeds before the farmer's scythe, 

Their slanders all were smitten down. 

To nobler heights his manhood rose; 

All eyes with hope to him were turned; 
He won the homage of his foes 

Who wisdom from their failings learned. 
Men said: "No structure long can stand 

That rests upon a grievous wrong; 
Garfield will reunite the land, 

And make the union firm and strong." 

He fell, the soldier, chieftain, man, 

A million eyes with tears were dim; 
Through all the world a shudder ran; 

All hearts with love were turned to him. 
How calm, how patient, brave, and grand 

The soul within his stricken form! 
A stillness fell upon the land, 

As comes a lull amid a storm. 

Slow ebbed his useful life away, 
The Christian chief to all was dear, 



394 



TKEASUKES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 



We watched and waited day by day, 
With feeble hope, with anxious fear. 

How brave the battle for his life — 
To all mankind he seemed «, friend; 

How sweet the fond and faithful wife, 
Who watched with courage till the end. 

He died. The land was draped with woe, 

And all the world seemed filled with gloom. 
Men marched with music, sad and slow, 

And bore him to his honored tomb; 
They passed along the crowded pave; 

The autumn rain fell on the sod; 
His dust to mother earth they gave; 

His glorious soul they left with God! 

Bright as the splendor of the dawn, 

His name is known in every clime; 
His manhood will go gleaming on 

Down the eternal groove of time. 
He met with courage every wrong, 

He bore his pain with Christ-like grace, 
He died a victim to the throng 

That haunts the presidential place. 



Beside the western sea he lies, 

His face has vanished from our gaze, 

And millions, yet unborn, shall rise 
To eloquently speak his praise. 



TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 395 

To him the world its love will give, 

Will turn with an admiring eye; 
His life has taught us how to live, 

His death has shown us how to die! 



The Barefoot Boy. 

T^LESSINGS on thee, little man, 
r~J Barefoot boy, with cheek of tan! 
With thy turned-up pantaloons, 
And thy merry whistled times; 
With thy red lip, redder still 
Kissed by strawberries on the hill; 
With the sunshine on thy face, 
Through thy torn brim's jaunty grace, 
From my heart I give thee joy; 
I was once a barefoot boy! 
Prince thou art— the grown-up man 
Only is republican. 
Let the million -dollared ride — 
Barefoot, trudging at his side, 
Thou hast more than he can buy, 
In the reach of ear and eye, — 
Outward sunshine, inward joy: 
Blessings on thee, barefoot boy! 



396 



TEEASUEES FEOM THE POETIC WOELD. 



Oh, for boyhood's painless play; 
Sleep that wakes in laughing day; 
Health that mocks the doctor's rules; 
Knowledge, (never learned of schools) 
Of the wild bee's morning chase, 
Of the wild flower's time and place, 
Flight of fowl, and habitude 
Of the tenants of the wood; 
How the tortoise bears his shell, 
How the woodchuck digs his cell, 
And the ground-mole sinks his well; 
How the robin feeds her young, 
How the oriole's nest is hung; 
Where the whitest lilies blow, 
Where the freshest berries grow, 
Where the ground-nut trails its vine, 
Where the wood-grapes' clusters shine; 
Of the black wasp's cunning way, 
Mason of his walls of clay, 
And the architectural plans 
Of gray hornet artisans! — 
For, eschewing books and tasks, 
Nature answers all he asks; 
Hand in hand with her he walks, 
Face to face with her he talks, 
Part and parcel of her joy, — 
Blessing on the barefoot boy! 



Oh, for boyhood's time of June, 
Crowding years in one brief moon, 



TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 397 

When all things I heard or saw, 
Me, their master, waited for; — 
I was rich in flowers and trees, 
Humming birds and honey bees; 
For my sport the squirrel played, 
Plied the snouted mole his spade; 
For my taste the blackberry cone 

Purpled over hedge and stone; 
Laughed the brook for my delight, 
Through the day and through the night, 
"Whispering at the garden wall, 
Talked with me from fall to fall; 
Mine the sand-rimmed pickerel pond, • 
Mine the walnut slopes beyond, 
Mine on bending orchard trees 
Apples of Hesperides! 
Still as my horizon grew, 
Larger grew my riches, too; 
All the world I saw or knew 
Seemed a complex Chinese toy, 
Fashioned for a barefoot boy! 

Oh, for festal dainties spread, 
Like my bowl of milk and bread, — 
Pewter spoon and bowl of wood, 
On the door-stone gray and rude! 
O'er me, like a regal tent, 
Cloudy-ribbed, the sunset bent, 
Purple curtained, fringed with gold, 



398 



TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 



Looped in many a wind-swung fold; 
"While for music came the play 
Of the pied frog's orchestra; 
And to light the noisy choir, 
Lit the fly his lamp of fire; — 
I was monarch: pomp and joy 
Waited on the barefoot boy! 



Cheerily, then, my little man, 
Live and laugh as boyhood can, 
Though the flinty slopes be hard, 
Stubble -speared the new-mown sward, 
Every morn shall lead thee through 
Fresh baptisms of the dew; 
Every evening from thy feet 
Shall the cool wind kiss the heat; 
All too soon these feet must hide 
In the prison -cells of pride, 
Lose the freedom of the sod, 
Like a colt's for work be shod, 
Made to tread the mills of toil 
Up and down in ceaseless moil; 
Happy if their track be found 
Never on forbidden ground, — 
Happy if they sink not in 
Quick and treacherous sands of sin. 
Ah! that thou couldst know thy joy 
Ere it passes, barefoot boy! 



TREASURES FROM THE POETIC WORLD. 399 



After. 

E know that when the clouds look darkest 
And spread their shade around — 
If we could look beyond their portals, 

The sunshine would be found. 
And when the storm beats o'er us fiercely, 

Crushing our flowers to earth — 
That when the tempest's reign is over 
They will have fairer birth. 

So, when life's cares almost o'erwhelm us, 

And we sink down dismayed, 
When hope's fair promises all fail us, 

And — even trust betrayed — 
Fairer for having been o'ershadowed, 

Our blessings will shine forth 
After the storm is over. Its coming 

Has proved true friendship's worth. 



My Creed- 

i\ 

U HOLD that Christian grace abounds 
^' Where charity is seen; that when 
We climb to heaven, 'tis on the rounds 
Of love to men. 



400 



TREASUEES FROM THE POETIC WOELD. 



I hold all else, named piety, 

A selfish scheme, a vain pretence; 
"Where centre is not, can there be 
Circumference? 

This I moreover hold, and dare 

Affirm where'er my rhyme may go: 
Whatever things be sweet or fair, 
Love makes them so. 






Whether it be the sickle's rush 

Through wheat fields, or the fall of showers, 
Or by some cabin door a bush 
Of rugged flowers. 

'Tis not the wide phylactery, 

Nor stubborn fast, nor stated prayers, 
That make us saints; we judge the tree 
By what it bears. 

And when a man can live apart 

From works, on theologic trust, 
Know the blood about his heart 
Is dry as dust. 





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